The Nameless
by meholstein
Summary: Dean is condemned to hell, where he is left to wither away and become one of the nameless. When he returns, is he too broken to be saved? *Mature audiences* caring!Sam and caring!Bobby. Triggers for... everything. Sequel pending.
1. Chapter 1: Hell

**Dean Winchester**

He came to, face pressed into burning sand. His eyes flew open, and he scrambled up to get his chest off of the hot, dry dust. He quickly was up on two feet, but even so the burning ground boiled his feet.

He blinked and looked around.

The red, fiery canyon spread out before him, like a perversion of Utah's beautiful gorges. The air was red, the ground was red, and fire creeped up the sides of the canyon walls like decoration. Ashes fell from the sky, and immediately Dean started coughing from the rancid air.

In the canyon walls were doorways, simple holes carved into the sizes, from which echoed out screams. They sounded terrible, as if being torn limb from limb.

When Dean looked out to the distance, he saw pale grey, wispy forms of humans. They were floating around, looking to the sky, crying.

For a brief second, Dean Winchester gave a frown, and thought _'Well, for_ hell _, this isn't so bad.'_

Then a demon rounded the corner.

It didn't look like a human with black eyes. This was its' true form, the blackened withered husk of a human. It's skin was black as tar, it's muscles gone, the blackened eyes rotting out from inside the skull. Blond hair fell in wet dark strands, and little remained of the woman's tattered clothes. She wore a sinister grin as she stood up straight.

"Look what we have here," she hissed, and took off straight for Dean. For a perverse moment, Dean was amused. _There were zombies in hell_.

Dean turned on his heel and bolted the other direction, praying that the canyon he saw would not have an end. He followed the twisting, turning passages of the narrowing gorge, avoiding turning into any of the caverns lest he get lost in the darkness.

He heard the demon find a friend, and then another, and soon a crowd of demons was chasing him almost lazily as they jeered.

"Give up!" they called. "Come and play with us!"

Dean chanced a glance backwards, and as soon as he did he snapped his head forward and resisted the urge to retch.

The demons behind him were all in some state of horror. Some looked like rotting corpses, zombies chasing languidly behind him no matter how fast he ran, whereas others looked like true _demons_ , horns growing from their foreheads and their skeletons visible and on fire, surrounded by a blackened smoke. It looked like the inside of someone when they were killed with Ruby's knife.

He reached the end of this cavern and tried to turn left into a cave, but from the cave emerged another fiery demon tugging two people in chains along behind him. They looked like slaves - unclothed, whipped, and barely remaining upright as they were walked along. They were human, although their backs were flayed and red blood seeped from the wounds.

Dean was cornered, and the crowd came to a stop as they investigated him.

"Dean Winchester," one hissed as it came forward. His hair was falling out, his skin also peeling off like blackened tar to reveal a reddened skeleton peeking out from underneath. "We are surprised to see you here."

"Not that surprised," another demon mumbled.

The demon in front held out his hands, and a pair of chains was offered to him. Dean grit his teeth and offered his hands, seeing no way to fight his way out of a horde of demons in their natural territory. This is what he signed up for, after all.

"We are going to have some fun," he hissed, as the chains clamped shut around Dean Winchester's wrists.

The crowd dissipated, demons filtering off through the hallways as he was led through one. The darkness was consuming, and the heat inside the tunnel was already threatening to burn Dean's skin off, coming up in painful bubbles.

He was led through the darkness for some time when he heard the unlocking of an old cell that he was unceremoniously thrown into. He fell against the stone floor, unable to brace his fall. The demon wordlessly locked the door and left, leaving Dean to the absolute blackness.

He patted his way around the cell walls, finding nothing but stone bricks and wetness. It was thicker than water, and he resisted considering what the wetness was. The walls were hot on all sides, and Dean had to be careful to sit on his clothes to avoid his legs being burned.

Dean also resisted wondering what they were waiting for. He was no stranger, he knew what went on in the bowels of the pit. There was nothing anymore for him, no valiant rescue coming, so he tried to content himself with what was happening in this moment. Sammy was alive and Sammy was safe, and sitting here on the floor in the heat wasn't so bad.

 **Dean Winchester**

Dean fell into a surprisingly relaxed state, not asleep but sitting against the wall waiting for something to happen. It did, when a red light began leaking in through the cracks in the wall, as he pawed his way around the cell.

He also realized that the cell walls were moving. There was no door or windows, but the stone cell walls were ever slowly closing in on him.

 _Just like fucking Star Wars,_ Dean thought sourly. He made a token effort to push inward on the walls, but in the back of his mind he knew there was no escaping whatever was happening here.

As the walls got closer, though, his token effort became a frantic scrambling, back against one wall and feet against the other, shoving for more space for his lungs to suck in air. He wanted to calm down and let it happen, knew fighting would make it worse, but the adrenaline pushed him on.

No matter how much he tried to resign himself to his fate, the panic seeping into his body kept him fighting against the slowly closing in walls. As they pushed in closer, pressing in on his shoulders, he laid on his side and made himself as small as possible, hoping to stave off the inevitable. He felt his fear and panic mount in his chest.

The panic turned to pain as the walls began to close in on his shoulders, and he felt his collarbone snap like a twig as his back became suddenly much thinner. He cried out from the pain, but just as soon as he did he felt his shoulder bones separate.

He began to scream as his back began to flatten out, but as he did the walls caught his hips and his hips similarly folded inward against the force of the sandstone walls. The pain danced up and down his back, but instead of passing out the torment of hell seemed to keep him even more lucid, feeling every spike that went up and down his nervous system.

Just as he was sure he would die, he suddenly was whole again in the empty cell. The cell was as it was, pitch black and whole. Dean was shaking on the hot floor, the memory of pain still dancing around his nervous system. He was shaking like a leaf, his nerves still spiking pain from his bones.

"What the fuck," he breathed to himself. "What the actual fuck."

He tried to calm down and sit against the cell wall, hoping something like that wouldn't happen again but knowing it would.

 **Dean Winchester**

One moment Dean was in the cell with his eyes closed, and the next moment he heard a noise as he snapped them open. He stood in a concrete hallway, his footsteps echoing off of the smooth walls.

At the end of the hallway were demons, lined up behind what looked like stands. Each demon stood behind one of the stands, and hoisted a gun up on the stand. Some demons had large machine guns, belts coiled up on the floor, and others had brought in a variety of small guns.

 _Makarov_ , Dean listed off in his head. _M16, Kriss, AK47_ , he named from rote memory.

The thoughts flew out of his head, though, when they pointed them at him. He looked to the right and left, and saw he was the only target they could be aiming for. Fear shot through him like an electric charge, but he had no time to run.

A round pierced his shoulder, cutting clean through his body and leaving blood pouring out both sides. Another round lodged itself in his chest, making his heart beat wildly against the aluminum rock now lodged in the empty space in his heart. Birdshot flew into his body, covering him in bloody holes. Rounds tore into him, one after another, speeding up in intensity as time went on.

Dean body was nothing but holes, and as the noise receded the awful pain filled him as he dropped to his knees. He coughed up blood, knew he absolutely should be dead right now, but the bullets kept piling up in his body -

Dean came to in the cell again, again completely whole and body filled with the memory of pain. He was starting to see a pattern.

He was on the edge of a forest and demons were chasing him, chasing him through a field as he ran down a Virginia hill. The demons jeered, and he heard their cries as their medieval weaponry clanged. He was dressed in peasants clothes, and couldn't spare the time to think that this was all a preposterous game to them. He was too busy running.

He dived behind shelter and they ran past, but he knew before long they would find him. Their spears drove into his chest and broke his ribs, maces rammed into his shoulder and crushed his bones to dust –

It was over, and Dean was in his cell again. He sighed, the pain fading away again, and he felt a little bit of relief.

At first, Dean relished when he was left alone in his hot cell and wasn't trapped in some sort of hallucination or game. It was peace and silence.

But as time wore on, Dean hated when he was left alone. Screams sometimes danced along the edges of his pitch black cell, and he would swear he could see movement on the edges of his vision. None of this was real, so who was to say if there was a demon really there or not.

Sometimes the silence was deafening, and all Dean could hear was his harsh breathing in the wet cell. It began to haunt him, wondering where he was, wondering whether or not they would come for him again.

It was then that he sometimes hoped they would come for him, when it wasn't enough to walk around his prison and examine all of the cracks in the wall.

He knew the exact dimensions, the roughness, the number of bricks in the cell when he got up and began counting and cataloguing. It comforted him to know and understand this small part of his prison.

 **Dean Winchester**

There was no night and there was no day, so Dean couldn't say how long he'd been trapped in that cell. There was not even an urge for him to sleep.

He knew it had been a long time, though, when he found he couldn't picture his father's face. He could remember everything about him, how his last words made him feel proud, and scared, but he couldn't remember the exact way his nose looked or what color his eyes even were. He knew they must be brown, but his eyes were green and Sam's were blue, so maybe they weren't.

The thought of it killed him.

It was then that Dean realized he would be here forever, so long that he would forget who he was and where he came from. He knew that demons used to be human, but until now had resisted thinking about how such a thing came to be.

He thought he could see the path laid out before him. They'd strip him of who he was, and give him a new identity.

Well, not Dean. He didn't need to remember much, just that he would never hurt anyone else, for Sam and Bobby and Dad and himself. He figured that was simple enough to hold on to, no matter how long eternity ended up being.

 _Hell_ , Dean thought hysterically, _Revelations says God comes and destroys hell. Maybe he'll free me and it won't be eternity after all._

 **Dean Winchester**

It was during the wretched silence that a new demon walked through the stone door into his cell.

"Dean Winchester," it cooed.

Dean backed up against the wall, but had the decency to scowl. "What, I don't get an introduction?" he rasped, throat dry with disuse. Damn, it had been a _long_ time since he spoke last.

"I'm Allistair," it said smoothly, and the cell blazed to life when torches that weren't there before lit.

It was the shape of a human, with horrid pale eyes and blackened, foggy, translucent… skin? The fire glinted off of it in red, and horns were clearly protruding from it's head. It's skeleton was glowing, _on fire_.

It was far more disgusting than the comics; it wore no clothes, with the skin of a monster and the horns and claws of a killer, dripping in blood. It looked more like a zombie or monster than it did a comic book demon with it's scarred, clawed skin and twisted posture.

"You're horrible," Dean sneered, repelled.

He gestured to himself. "You flatter me, Dean."

"You guys get tridents too?" Dean mocked.

"Well, we don't have tails," It said smoothly, "But we do have weapons."

Suddenly, to the right, appeared a tray of, what do you know, weapons. Dean looked around and saw a rack behind him, with cuffs at the corners. His heart rate sped up, and he knew by this point his bravado was limited.

"Oh, looks like you know what comes next," he said smoothly. "Looks like the hallucinations got to you?"

Dean set his face and said nothing.

The demon, Allistair, waved his hand and Dean flew onto the rack, the cuffs snapping around his limbs quickly. Panic fluttered in his chest, and Dean fought the restraints even though he knew there was no fighting.

Allistair picked up a jagged knife, and pressed it to Dean's now naked chest. "You know what happens here, right?" it said, etheral white eyes boring into him.

Then he began cutting.

 **Dean Winchester**

Dean was on the rack, made whole by Allistair, when suddenly he turned around.

His clothes were still on, but he felt them being cut off. 'Why wouldn't they just dissapear?' Dean asked, but the hand he felt behind him was his answer.

His thoughts jumped to high gear, quickly spiraling out of control as panic overtook him. He started freaking out, anxiety making his throat constrict.

 _It isn't pain. It isn't anymore pain, it won't be pain._

 _It can't possibly be as bad as the pain._

"What do you say, Dean?" the voice purred, a hand running down his leg.

Dean closed his eyes. _It isn't pain._

 **Dean Winchester**

"Are you sure you don't want to accept?" Allistair cooed. "You won't make it much longer."

It had been years since he met Allistair, years since Allistair started in on what became his campaign. _Get off the rack, turn the knife on someone else and it won't be on you._

 _Damn the demon, this demon was right. He wouldn't make it much longer._

But he couldn't give in. He couldn't; he couldn't do something like that. It was wrong. _Dean Winchester would never do that_.

These days, Dean couldn't always remember why.

He knew Sammy wouldn't want him to, he knew Bobby wouldn't want him too. He couldn't do it; for them. He couldn't remember Sammy or Bobby, but he remembered that he couldn't do it for them.

But Dean remembered he was Dean Winchester, and Sammy and Bobby were his family. So he wouldn't.

"No," Dean said, limply. "I can't."

Dean's skin knit together again, fresh and brand-new.

"Well, all right then," Allistair said cordially, as he slid his sharp knife over Dean's torso. "But I'm curious, Deano… why?"

"Fuck off," Dean rasped. _Don't give him anything_.

"Is it for those boys, upstairs? Bobby and little Sammy?"

 _Don't you dare breathe a word about Sammy._

"You know they can't save you, not from here," he reasoned, cutting Dean's skin open with precision.

 _He's wrong. Sammy's coming to save me._

"Do you even remember them, Dean?" Allistair leaned in, his breath rancid on Dean's face. "Do you remember little Sammy?" he said as he drove the knife in.

Dean coughed up blood, blinking away tears. _I love him, and that's enough_.

 **Nameless**

The demon was standing over him, jagged implements piercing his skin as they were drug along. He was screaming hysterically, felt like his throat was going to be torn out as the knife rumbled along his ribs, drug along his sternum, plunged into his gut.

The demon was talking but he wasn't listening, he was screaming, screaming, screaming.

 **Nameless**

Two men stood before him, a demon tied to a rack in between them.

"Dean," the taller one insisted, "We need the information. This demon might know how to get you out of hell." He couldn't look directly at him, it hurt; he looked away.

He looked down and saw a knife in his hands, silver and gleaming, and turned it around in his palm. What was he doing holding this knife?

"Dean," The shorter man said. He was wearing a ballcap and it tugged at something inside him. "It won't give up the information willingly."

"Do it, Dean!" the tall man insisted. His tone was becoming angry, and he didn't want him to hurt him. But he didn't know what he was supposed to do.

"Wow, he's really fargone," The tall man remarked. "You need to get the information out of her, Dean!" he insisted. "Use the knife on her."

He didn't want to hurt the innocent girl inside of her.

"The girl is dead already, she was shot in the chest," The shorter man said. "There's nothing to lose."

He didn't want to disappoint them, he felt. He remembered doing this before, demons strapped to chairs, " _Where's Lillith hiding_?"

He sunk the knife into her arm and everything faded away, leaving the girl strapped to a rack in a cell just like his.

He immediately backed up and dropped the knife, hands shaking as she pleaded with him not to _hurt her._

"I don't know if that will count, since it's only a technicality," Allistair was saying to another demon behind him.

He turned around, and found another demon even larger, more fiery, more blackened smoke and backed up against the wall. "Please," he started pleading. "I can't hurt her, please don't hurt me."

"The least we can do is try the ritual and see if it takes," the other demon said in a decidedly more feminine voice. "It has to be done on earth so it will be a while; for now, continue to try and get him to do it voluntarily."

They wanted him to hurt the girl, but he wasn't going to hurt her, he wasn't going to hurt anyone. He wasn't going to fall for their tricks and hurt anyone else, no matter what the situation looked like.

"It's not going to work," Allistair insisted.

 **Nameless**

"It's me, Sam," his tall frame jeered. His shaggy hair covered his blue eyes, and he stood over him in the humid and hot stone cell. He stood on the fourth block from the left side, and he knew exactly what that block looked like.

 _Not Sammy_ , he thought almost frantically. _Sammy would never hurt me._

Sam did hurt him, Sam put his arms in a vice and twisted until it was bent the wrong way, bent back in on itself and snapped into a thousand pieces like a wet tree branch.

He closed his eyes and the pain continued, white hot. He didn't hold back, he writhed away and screamed.

Sam's voice was in his ears, oddly familiar and far too painful. He wished it would stop, would take a thousand times more pain to make it _stop_.

 **Nameless**

He was in his cell, alone.

"Dean, you need to do what Allistair wants," Sam's voice rang through the cell. He was sitting cross-legged in front of him, wearing the same clothes as the day he died.

 _I can't_ , he thought. _Not again_.

"Yes you can," Sam said. "You're both in hell, it's going to happen to her anyways, why not you? If you do it, you won't be in pain."

 _No, I'll be a demon and I'll have let my family down_.

"It's not letting us down to want the pain to end," Sam insisted.

Us was wrong; this was Sam and he was fighting for Sammy, not this.

Sam rolled his eyes, and suddenly he vanished.

 **Dean Winchester**

Dean was lucid, a crisp moment of clarity cutting in, as it so rarely did anymore.

Dean felt the frayed edges of his mind, felt the memories threaten to slip away again. _Keep it together, Winchester,_ His rational mind reasoned. _Sam is coming for you._

But Dean was no fool. He knew you didn't keep it together in hell. You either went mad or became a demon, and Dean was never going to become a demon.

 _But Sammy's coming_ , Dean thought frenetically.

The surrounding screaming echoed off of the impossibly large cave, bounced around in Dean's skull.

 _You know he might not get you out_ , The rational part of Dean thought to himself. _Not in time, at least._

And that was right. Dean had figured out by now that time moved along rather quickly in hell. Hell wasn't quite as real, lacking the cutting edge of reality, the crisp quality of existence. It was years in between night and day of earth, Allistair taking the time to apprise him of how little time passed.

Sam and Bobby didn't have enough time to figure out an escape plan. By the time they had one, Dean knew he wouldn't be Dean anymore.

 _I'm so sorry,_ Dean thought brokenly, feeling his mind slipping away. _I can't hold on much longer_.

The heat of the pit made Dean's skin bubble off of him, the stench of charred flesh filling his senses.

Dean's resolve was weakening. He didn't care anymore, didn't care about them "breaking" him. This wasn't earth, there was no war. Dean had no secrets he was protecting. There was no escape, not even death. His last hope was Sammy.

Dean gave in, and opened his mouth in an unholy cry. He did as he had never done in life, baring his pain to the world, completely indifferent to people reveling in his screams.

He heard Allistair laugh, but didn't hear Allistair taunt him for giving in, didn't care anymore.

 _I'm so sorry Sammy_ , he thought, as his mind dissolved. _Please forgive me._

 **Nameless**

He began fighting to escape, wildly, frantically, screaming as he jerked against his bindings.

"Finally giving up, huh?" _He_ taunted. "Realizing there's no escape?"

 _Please just get away from me, let me go_ please _!_

A nail was driven through his hand into the wooden rack upon which he was secured, and he howled like a trapped animal.

"So I ask you, Dean Winchester," _he_ hissed, horrible, evil. "Will you accept my offer?"

 _No. Sammy's coming._

His face was grabbed, jerked, looking into the eyes of pure darkness. "Will you get off the rack?"

He closed his eyes tightly, turned away. _Can't_.

He was let go of just as roughly, cast away. "I can't believe you'd be so stubborn Dean…. Do you know what happens to people who refuse long enough?"

 _Don't care. Doesn't matter_.

"They wither away into _nothing_ , Dean. Into the spirits you hear screaming outside," he gestured with his knife to the opening in his cave. "Mindless, disgusting animals," he spat.

The knife was held to the man's throat suddenly. "Do you want to spend eternity like that, Dean? Or like one of us, powerful and strong and _alive_."

 _"I'll never be like one of you!"_

His memory rang, his voice full of strength he lost long ago.

He said nothing. _Don't give him anything_.

 _He_ stood up, disgusted. "I can't believe you, Dean. Can't believe a hunter like you would choose a life like _that_ ," he spat.

He drove a nail through the man's other hand, vindictiveness lacing his features. "You're running out of chances to change your mind, Dean. I'd take it, while you still have time."

Instead the man screamed, feeling the blood pool in his palms.

 **Nameless**

He was chained to a cinderblock wall with iron shackles which groaned with age every time they moved. He was hanging, as if crucified, the damage already taking place on his body. Shoulders popped out of socket, his ribcage fracturing with the effort it took to breathe, his legs numb with blood loss.

Crucifixion was considered the most painful punishment invented, and when he remembered this punishment later he'd believe it.

For now, he was within the confines of his mind. The pain was distant and his senses dulled as he drifted, watching what was happening to his soul. _Don't let them see, don't let them know_.

The man's eyes started blankly ahead, betraying no thoughts to anyone. He didn't know, but it didn't matter. Demons here read your mind.

He prayed his prayer, and heard it gently come out of his mouth. "Hang on, Sammy's coming… Sammy…"

The pain would finally recede and things would go dark, only for a nail to be driven through his hand, bringing him screeching back to existence. He felt his torn vocal chords protest as his cries ripped through them, blood draining down his throat.

"Couldn't have you drifting off there," the demon cooed.

This one was a frail man in life, his soul spindly and thin with gaunt features reminiscent of a drug user. His skin was ashen, fingernails long and unkempt, his eyes permanently black.

His voice dropped a pitch. "Nobody sleeps in hell."

The demon slammed another nail into the other hand, sending shockwaves of pain down a dying and immobile arm. The man was acutely aware of the sinews in his hands separating, tried to hold onto the blood as it pooled in his hands and ran down to the floor.

The man's shaking started up in full force, terrified of what would happen the next time he unwittingly slept.

He felt the limb die, felt the nerve endings light up in agony as the blood pooled in the bottom of his limbs. He was forced to feel the death well after it happened, felt his toes as they blackened and died, smelled them as they rotted away.

He hung his head and sobbed, cried, screamed as the motion tore his ribcage into shreds against the nails. "Please, Sammy, please come get me!"

 **Nameless**

"This is no fun anymore," _He_ lamented.

White hot searing pain ripped through his side.

The man screamed.

"You're just an animal now," _he_ said dryly.

The pain reached inside him, fell outside of him. The man felt his organs fall out the side of his body, intimately familiar with their feel as they slid away.

The man kept screaming, his need for air forgotten in hell.

"I'm disappointed in you," _he_ tutted. "You had such promise…."

The man kept screaming, crying. He could feel his humanity slipping away.

"But no," he sighed. "Another one of them," _he_ said, scorn lacing his voice.

The knife was driven through his heart.

The man couldn't scream; he was drowning, drowning in his own blood.

"Shoulda' known," _he_ huffed, and then left the cell.

 **Nameless**

He was running.

His feet were pierced with sharp shards of jagged gravel with each step down the path. It was dusk, except instead of the beautiful red of a sunset were flames in the distance, impossibly high flames, enough to engulf a skyscraper. The edge of the sky was red from the heat, and it radiated up through the ground, burning his feet and making him sweat.

Behind him were demons, tirelessly chasing after him. He could hear their snarling, could hear their screams as they never stopped, never slowed. If he didn't run fast enough, they would attack him with their pitchforks, spears, and swords that they carried with them. They were all competing to be the first one to attack the man who kept running.

It was too hot; his vision swam as he ran, yet he didn't pass out from the heat. He felt his feet begin to blister, but knew the pain from blistered, cut feet and a fever was much better compared to what would happen if the horde behind him caught up with him. They were leathery creatures, ashes and flesh and blood dripping off of their bodies, leaving red footprints as they ran.

He looked up and the path ahead ended; he turned and bolted into the pitch black forest next to him, praying that he could find shelter before the demons caught him. As he ran, sticks and thorns catching in his legs, he saw a cabin.

The man bolted inside, and quickly threw the bolt, looking around for more defense. He saw nothing but old plywood, good enough to reinforce the door. The demons began hacking into the door, axes and maces quickly breaking the weak dry plywood of the hut.

Panic filled his heart, reached up into his chest, his throat, and he felt his breathing involuntarily quicken. His stomach lurched, and he retched in the cabin, but the action is in vain in hell. He doubles over with the pain, wrapping his arms around his stomach.

"Sammy, please save me," he whispers over and over, the name a prayer. "Sammy please save me."

The monsters found their way in, and the man's last breath is a cry for Sammy as he's torn apart and devoured, feeling each demon's claw as they rake through him and laugh, bathing in his blood.

 **Nameless**

He suddenly appeared in a different room than his old one. This one was white, blindingly white.

"I'm done with this one," _He_ said roughly, voice everywhere.

The man pitched forward, scarred feet landing on cold, unforgiving tile as his knees crashed. It was warm, got on the man's hands as he touched the wound. _Can't feel a thing._

"It's a waste of our time," _he_ said.

The door slammed, metal scraping metal as a deadbolt was thrown behind him.

He heard their steps recede as they left, growing more distant.

 _Am I alone?_

He sat on the floor of the empty room, bleeding, unmoving.

 _They'll be back._

 _Don't let them get anything._

 _You won't get anything from me._

 _Sammy's coming to save me._

The floor was smooth, too smooth beneath the cracked and dried blood on his hands.

Time streched on, irrelevant, unmoving.

The endless present stretched before him, spent in a white room.

After many hours the man sat up, looked around at the blindingly white room.

It was made of porcelain tile, all porcelain tile perfectly clean as it streched across the walls and the ceiling. Empty and bare, all white tile except for the iron door.

He turned to the door, saw it was solid, saw it was locked, bolted shut securely. _There's never an escape_.

 _"You know what happens when you try,"_ _His_ voice hissed into his mind.

On the other side, there was a solitary window. Through this small barred window he could see the fields of hell, laid out before him.

Ghosts wandered the landscape, pale and uncertain as they stumbled along, their grief causing them to fall in pain.

They screamed, endlessly screaming, howling into the dark.

The sky was black, blacker than any night, tinted red with the fire that rose from the very ground itself. It burned, burned the feet of any who weren't demon as they stumbled along in their misery.

There were people left to die, beaten and bloodied on the roadside, blood gurgling from their mouth as they retched into the fiery dirt.

The man turned, turned to face the inside of his tile room. His chest heaved, panic overtaking him.

 _I'm trapped._

 _In prison_

 _Abandoned._

He felt tears explode out of him, collapsed on the floor of the white porcelain room as his fingers dragged along the ground, got caught on the drain on the floor, finally alone to express his madness.

"Sammy," he cried, face screwed up as he fell wholly to the floor. He remembered love, desperately clung to the emotion.

He didn't remember who his Sammy was, or what he looked like. The man tried, tried desperately to call to memory the face of the person above who he loved so much, but came up short.

He remembered the feeling in his chest, warm and big and strong. He remembered Sammy made him feel that way.

It was just a sliver now, his last memory. Sammy was coming to get him. Sammy will take the pain away; Sammy will make him feel warm.

"Sammy," he cried, curling up onto the tile floor. "Come save me."

 **Nameless**

He could hear humming, just beyond the stark walls, as if whispering ghosts prowled the edge of the room, whispering into his ear over the distance.

Their words were inaudible, but he knew, _he knew_ they were speaking of him. Speaking of the latest man who withered away into insanity.

He was free, pacing the room, running, desperately trying to escape their torment.

"You know what to do," they said, "how to make us go away."

 _No, hurts, please no more_

Their words ran together, incoherent, insane

 _Please NO_

"Please!" The man pounded the porcelain white walls desperately, bloodying his hands. "Please! Make it stop, please!"

His voice came out in scratches, a high-pitched wail, his voice breaking over and over.

The whispers ran together, words unintelligible, a stream of deep voices reminding him of what he didn't remember. They tore at something in his chest, he covered his ears, unable to get them to stop. He just wanted these voices to stop.

He cried out for their return, taking twisted ownership of his own agony. He was begging for them to come hurt him, to distract him from his insanity.

The man's wailing for someone to come was rewarded with a nameless demon entering, brandishing a white-hot knife.

There was no foreplay as he brought it down roughly on his skin, charring the flesh to a first-degree burn within seconds. He howled with agony, nothing more than a trapped animal, a creature going mad.

He was rewarded with the brand shoved down his throat, his tongue burned away and swelling shut, closing his airway; in the confines of hell, his lack of air did not matter, he felt only the pain _they_ wanted him to feel.

And they wanted him to shut up, wanted him to feel the burning lancing across his skin.

 _Sammy, I'm sorry_ , he begged, screaming silently internally. _Please forgive me_.

 **Nameless**

His cries echoed off of the porcelain prison, but this time he was not met with any demons to release him from the torture in his mind.

The crowds, the legions of people he couldn't save followed him like the army of the dead, whispering loud accusations in his ear of things he'd long since forgotten.

"You couldn't save me," they whispered in turn, invisible yet pressing in on him. He struggled against his bindings on the racks, the leather wearing away at his thin skin.

"You couldn't save me!" Their whispers rushed against his ears horrifying in their intensity.

"You let me die…"

"You let me _rot_."

 _Sammy's coming. I can't let go, because Sammy's coming._

"You're alone, you're trapped here, you can't even die…"

 _Remember. Sammy's coming._

He jerked against bindings, trying to escape the whispering, the taunting voices that didn't know, didn't _know_ that he was coming.

His shoulder jerked forward, he threw himself forward, getting away from the voices, from the noise, trying to fight them because _Sammy was going to_ save _him_ and _Sammy was coming_.

But they didn't go; they drove further into his skull, piercing deeper, _stop, no, please, stop…_ he moaned, crying, desperately trying to escape the torment.

N **ameless**

The silence was worse.

It pressed down, suffocating, tearing the life away from anything it touched.

He couldn't move, couldn't so much as lift a finger against the weight of the dead air.

 _Help. Escape_.

The room blurred and spun, the sight of the solitary door fuzzy on the edges of his vision, blacking in and out.

 _Is there anything out there?_

The room went blurry, rolled up.

 _Is there anything?_

It pressed down on him, crushing him, killing him.

 _Sammy's coming._

The crushing didn't stop, never stopped.

 _It won't end. Never ends_.

Pain danced through his awareness, his soul fighting his body, desperate to be free from the eternal pain.

He felt noise tear through his throat, ripping his vocal chords, pain lancing through his chest. He heard distantly the scream that escaped his lungs, voice long gone, his cry a chilling warning as tears escaped from his eyes.

He heard from far away the chorus of the dead, screaming with them.


	2. Chapter 2: Escape

**Nameless**

The man's chest heaved as he pulled air into his lungs, and hands tentatively reached out, feeling his surroundings.

They don't get far, immediately hitting solid wood above him. Dirt falls off of the wood and into his eyes, making him splutter. He explores the rest of the wooden box, but it completely surrounds him; it's dirty, dusty and smelly.

A panicked feeling rises in his chest, swallowing him whole.

 _I'm trapped in this box._

He starts sucking air into his lungs quickly, too quickly.

 _Please, please let me out …_

He crawls into his head and dimly feels his heart calm down, disconnected from his body again.

 _Won't get anything from me._

He'll never give them the satisfaction of looking afraid.

He's scared to push more on the box, afraid fighting will only make it worse, so he gets comfortable. If he doesn't fight and waits it out, they won't hurt him like they did before. The darkness is pressing in on him on all sides as he settles his gaze above him on the nothingness.

"Sammy, please come soon," the man began whispering to himself endlessly, falling into a painful rhythm.

 **Nameless**

He fell asleep without noticing, but woke up with a start. People didn't fall asleep where he was, not if _they_ didn't want it. Why would they want him to sleep?

They could have came back and he wouldn't have even noticed.

Just as quickly as he woke, the panic returned to constrict his chest, and his hands resumed their customary tremor.

Why _didn't_ anyone come back?

Things didn't make sense, and things got a lot worse when they didn't make sense.

His hands reached up again to touch the top of the box. There seemed to be a great weight around the whole box, as he pressed up into the boards. Whenever he applied pressure, dirt fell through the cracks.

The answer leapt unbidden into the man's mind. _I'm in a coffin_.

He wondered what was above the dirt of his coffin. Wondered if it was more agony, more punishment from the pit. They buried him in the pit.

No screams drifted to his ears, just crushing silence. Not the pit.

He wished the silence would stop, he could hear too clearly his own pain, his own intrusive thoughts, as audible as another person's voice.

 _Just wait for them here and it won't be that bad._

These were the constant thoughts which kept him company. They echoed in and out of his skull, cluttered and confused.

The man reached up, and pounded on the coffin lid several times. Dust flew off, and he coughed to clear it from his lungs.

He was rewarded with no noise on the other side.

His fingers dug under the side of the wooden slats, and he managed to break one of the planks of wood. Dirt fell into the coffin, reducing his air supply to a square foot near his face.

 _No, no,_ he thought frantically. _No, stop!_

He frantically shoved his arm up through the dirt, and started breaking the planks above his torso. The wood was old and gave way easily to the piles of dirt above it.

He pushed off the back of the coffin with his legs, and shoved his torso into the dirt. He reached his arms up, fighting the dirt falling all around him, and his hand found air. He used his other arm to push off of the coffin, and his legs found purchase under him on the bottom of the old box. He pushed up _hard_ , and forced his body through the dirt. His head emerged, and he breathed fresh air.

The air felt so clean and crisp that he stayed there, halfway in the sinkhole, while he breathed. This air was not stale, or smelled like the rotten flesh of the dead. It smelled… not like anything he knew.

Comforting warmth hit his eyelids strong, the intensity of it already hurting his head. He moaned in discomfort.

He brought his other hand out of the dirt, and bent over the land as he dragged his legs out of the hole, gasping for breath as he bent over.

He rolled over, now free, and brought his arm up to shade his eyes as he opened them.

He gasped, curling away and immediately closing them again, hurt by the brightness of the sunlight. It was so bright, and it flared up in his vision; he blinked away watery tears from the intensity. He opened his eyes again.

There were two men standing over him, both holding guns, both pointing at him. He brought his hands up in defense, scrambling backwards, wordlessly pleading with them.

His heart sunk in his chest as he regretted climbing out of the coffin; he knew better, he should have just stayed there.

He settled several feet away, shaking on the ground and looking down at his tattered army boots. He felt the clothes on his body and his throat constricted; whenever he had clothes on, they were going to be taken off.

 _Please, don't,_ he thought desperately. _Please_.

"We're not going to hurt you, Dean," an old, gravelly voice said. "We just want to talk."

The man brought a hand to his forehead as images rushed past, flashing across his vision.

 _A man in a ball cap, saying "Dean."_

 _A man with long hair, giving an him an exasperated look."_

These were the two men that were standing in front of him. The man shook the mirages off, then looked up at them, confused. He had learned years ago he shouldn't talk, and now they wanted him to? Was this some sort of trick?

One of the men made a move to approach him, and he shrunk back farther, bringing his arm up protectively over his head. He felt water on his face, and jumped in surprise when it did _not_ hurt. He was similarly surprised when he felt salt being sprinkled over him, with no effect.

"Dean," the gravelly voice said again. The man looked up at the face it belonged to, and saw a graying man's eyes looking out from under a weathered ball cap "I need to cut you with a silver knife to make sure you're not a revenant or a shapeshifter."

 _There's no use fighting._

The man slammed his eyes shut as he felt the man approaching; watching was only going to make it worse. _He_ didn't like him peering up anyways, he said, his eyes tracking his every move.

The man felt his hand grabbed roughly and forced himself to be still - _don't give them anything_ \- but he only felt a small cut in the palm of his hand, and his confusion was further intensified.

"Dean," the other man burst out, and the man's head snapped to look at him.

The man was tall, very tall, and had a mop of long hair covering his face. The man felt his chest worm around in confusion, something unknown growing in his chest. It was hot and uncomfortable.

The tall man looked like he was going to run at him, and he started shaking, but the man slowed as he got closer, to his relief.

"Dean, it's okay," The tall young man said, his eyes now watering freely. "You're free now. You're safe here."

 _Safe?_

The man felt warmth blossom in his heart and take over his limbs before he could quell the emotion.

 _You know what that leads to here. You've been down this road before._

He tried to shut down the adrenaline lancing through his veins at the thought of escape. There was no escape, no freedom. It had been a while since they played this trick on him.

Just as he found success in locking up, the older man laid down his gun and his knife away from all three of them, and walked slowly back towards the two.

 _Why would he give up his weapons?_

The man dared to look at the taller one, and felt his chest worm even more. The largeness in his chest grew. Adrenaline was pounding through his limbs, his fingers and head felt light. He felt the foreign feeling of muscles loosening in his face, in his chest. He was much more muscular than he remembered being, muscles weighing him down. He felt large, bulky, but like he could run a thousand miles.

Forgotten emotions pounded at the man, making his throat and eyes hurt before he even got the chance to cry. He went still from the stress, the newness confusing him.

It was all centered around the tall man now crouching in front of him, eyes locked on him like he was the center of the world. There was no cruelty in his gaze, only soft emotions the man had forgotten the words for.

The tall man's face was suddenly a boy's, _running around a state park with Levis jeans._

 _His long hair hung over his blue-green eyes even then, a toothy smile poking out from the child's face._

"Sammy," the man breathed in wonder. _Sammy._

"I'm here, Dean," the tall man said, reaching out to him, a smile blossoming across his face. _A smile_.

Instinct took over for the man and he leaned away from the outstretched hand, not sure of his own theories. What if this _wasn't_ Sammy, what if this was all a trick to get him to break?

The more he thought, the more he realized it couldn't be Sammy. How would he even have escaped the pit, escaped to _above_? He couldn't do it himself, so who helped him, and why would they help him of _all_ the people in the pit? He was the scourge of hell. There were too many unanswered questions for this explanation to sit well.

"Dean, you hungry?" The older man asked, motioning to the house. "Lets go inside and get you some food." He then began to walk away, clearly expecting the two to follow him.

The man knew better than to disobey a direct order, so he slowly climbed onto his feet and trudged inside. He scanned the bushes and the trees, looking for the threat. He wasn't going to eat the food, it was almost always poisoned, rotten, molding, diseased.

No matter how slowly he walked, the taller man was waiting on him. It was as if he wouldn't let the man out of his sight.

 _You only get punished worse for running, anyway._

Even if he could run a thousand miles, it would never be far enough.

The taller man opened the door and went inside the house, and he paused at the doorstep before turning the handle and going inside.

 **Bobby Singer**

"Bobby, look," Sam breathed, eyes looking at the cross on the other side of the field.

The grass and dirt had sunken into the ground, leaving a small hole in front of the cross. The dirt moved, as if an animal were beneath it, rolling and turning and shifting.

Suddenly, a hand reached up through the hole and grabbed a patch of grass, gripping it as if it were life itself.

Bobby whipped his gun out of his waistband, and Sam did the same as they crept across the field. The arm was coming up out of the hole, grasping the grass for purchase, scrambling along the dirty ground.

The arm was soon followed by a head, gasping for breath as the person rose out of the ground. Dean's dirt-smudged face peered at them, eyes closed against the sun. His hair was wild, looking the same as when he'd died.

"Dean," Bobby breathed, not daring to believe.

Sam lowered his gun to help Dean, but Bobby hissed "Sam, we don't know that it's him yet!" Sam frowned, eyebrows pinching together as they did when he had to do something he didn't like. He raised his gun and held it still.

Dean shoved his shoulders through the ground, pausing for a brief moment to breathe, before hoisting himself out of the hole and onto the dirt near the two men. He was wearing the clothes he was laid to rest in, body restored to perfect health.

Dean sat up and brought his arm up, and opened his eyes. His shoulders jerked forward and he curled away, as if hurt by the sunlight. He blinked a couple times, tears forming at the corner of his eyes.

They saw him grip the grass with his other hand tightly as he opened his eyes again, and looked straight at Sam and Bobby. His eyes flew open, and his face contorted as his eyebrows pinched together and he cringed.

Dean immediately scrambled backwards, bringing his hands up. He turned away, eyes cast downwards in deference. He kept crab-crawling backwards, assisting himself with one hand while the other stayed raised in surrender, finally coming to a halt several steps away.

Sam and Bobby paused and looked at each other. If this were a stupid monster, he would be ferally attacking them right now. If this were a smart monster, he'd be acting like… Dean.

They both pointedly ignored the last and most likely conclusion, but lowered their guns in agreement. There was always the chance that this was a _very_ smart monster.

"We're not going to hurt you, Dean," Bobby said slowly. "We just want to talk." His voice was filled with warning.

Instead of fleeing, Dean remained where he sat, shaking just slightly. Tremors ran up and down his body, uncharacteristic on his taut muscles. His face was still downcast, anxiety written all over. He looked frightened and confused, nothing like the Dean either of them remembered.

Dread pooled in Bobby's heart, and he looked over and saw grief and despair on Sam's. Again, they ignored the obvious.

Bobby took out his flask of holy water, and Dean shrunk back when Bobby approached him with an outstretched arm. Dean's shaking increased when the drops of holy water hit his face, but he did not burn. He remained where he sat, tossing Bobby occasional glances to follow his movements. There was no recognition in his gaze.

Sam took some salt from a bag in his pocket and threw it on Dean, but it similarly had no effect other than to frighten him. The granules bounced uselessly off of his skin.

Sam turned to look at Bobby, shock growing on his features, his eyebrows climbing his face.

"Dean?" Bobby said, gently this time.

The shaking man turned to look at him, and an eerie emptiness took over Dean's eyes. He stared at Bobby, recognition absent. Bobby's heart lurched in his chest, but forced himself to remain vigilant.

"I need to touch you with a silver knife, to make sure you're not a revenant or a shapeshifter."

Dean's eyes slammed shut and his shaking magnified, but he outstretched his hand. Bobby pulled the knife out of his jacket and pressed into the skin, but nothing happened.

"Dean," Sam cried out, and Dean's head snapped to look at him. Sam looked as if he was going to run at Dean and hug him, but when he saw Dean's shaking he obviously thought better of it, coming close slowly. "Dean, it's okay," Sam said, eyes watering fast. "You're free now. You're safe here."

Bobby's heart shredded in his chest, unable to do anything but stand there and watch the scene progress. His poor son was scared shitless of the two people who loved him most, and he didn't want to dwell too much on why.

Bobby backed away from Dean and pointedly laid his weapons down on the ground, away from all three people. He wanted to show Dean that they weren't going to hurt him, and to keep a frightened Dean away from a weapon.

Dean's eyes focused on Sam, and Bobby could see the wheels turning in the kid's mind. Then he scoffed to himself _Kid, he's 30,_ thought Bobby, but the broken man beneath him did not look 30.

 _He doesn't remember us_ , Bobby thought. Anger coursed through his veins at whatever demon did this to him, at whatever demon stole away this boy's memories of the only family he has left.

Dean looked the same as he did the day he died, and not a scratch was on him from the hellhounds. His clothes were mended, and he was as muscle bound and sturdy as ever. But Dean's shoulders were curled in, and fear seemed etched into his face; a look so uncharacteristic for Dean, and, Bobby thought, a look they were going to have to get used to.

"Sammy?" Dean whispered softly, too softly. His eyes were rapt on his brother. It looked like Dean was trying to remember something long forgotten.

"I'm here, Dean," Sam said, reaching out to Dean, a smile blossoming across Sam's face. Bobby smiled as well, hope blooming in his chest that Dean might remember them after all.

Dean regarded the outstretched hand with suspicion, and Sam thought better of it, pulling his arm back as the smile shrank. Dean resembled a wild animal, one which was liable to flee the moment it felt unsafe.

Bobby looked over at the two of them, suspended in time.

The situation was raising too many red flags in Bobby's mind. _How did Dean get out? Did someone help him?_ Bobby's eyes turned to Sam as he thought _Did Sam help him?_

 _No use pondering those questions out here in the yard_. He needed to move this party inside, where he could read and keep an eye on Dean. Dean looked ready to bolt, and unlike a wild animal, they could not afford to lose track of Dean Winchester.

"Dean, you hungry?" Bobby asked, not expecting a response. "Let's go inside and get you some food." Bobby started walking away, expecting Sam and Dean to follow him. He wanted to keep the pressure off of Dean, who was quite obviously _not alright_ , and knew he could trust Sam to shepherd his brother inside.

Bobby looked back, to check; Sam was getting up, gesturing for Dean to follow him - and he was - but Dean looked like he'd much rather run in the other direction. Bobby walked at speed, but Sam walked slowly to accommodate Dean cautiously following him.

Dean's eyes were scanning, taking in everything as if he had never seen it before. He was walking nervously, a hunter's gait when they were ready to run. Bobby turned back towards the house with the distinct feeling that Dean was _not okay_. Bobby shoved away thoughts of memory loss, of permanent damage.

He stepped into the kitchen made a big show of being involved in making food, figuring Sam's attention was enough for Dean to handle at the moment. If Bobby was not focusing on Dean, then they had a better chance of coaxing Dean into the house.

He turned to see Sam inside the hallway, but Dean looked cautiously around the door, poking his head inside and assessing it before stepping in.

 **Nameless**

He slowly approached the door, seeing the man who called himself Sammy standing in the hallway, waiting for him. It was all so achingly familiar, but he didn't know from where. He felt a tearing pain in his chest. Tears welled up in his eyes at the same time fright leapt into his heart. _What is happening to me?_

He liked the warm feeling in his chest, the same feeling that watered his eyes. It was the feeling that he ought hug the man calling himself Sammy. He desperately hoped it was Sammy.

Was this some sort of new trick, make him feel safe, just to make him break again?

They used to fool him, made him think he was out, so long ago. The times when they tormented him were a distant memory, but he could never forget what happened to him.

The man put one foot in the house, and the urge to flee overwhelmed him. He had no idea where he was, but instinct told him exactly where he wanted to be. It was as if he had walked the path so often he forgot the way, but his feet carried him where he wanted to go.

He rounded the corner and immediately ascended the stairs, and threw open the last door in the hallway to find a bedroom with two beds and a large devils trap painted on the ceiling.

He saw the traps and sighed with relief. The demons weren't going to come in here, and if they did, he could just run out the door again and they'd be trapped.

He paused, shocked. _How did I know that?_ And yet, he felt completely sure of the knowledge.

He looked at the beds, and immediately took them off the bedsprings and shoved the frames out of the room. Frames were too dangerous, too easy to put ropes and shackles on.

The man put the mattresses where they were and laid down on the one closest to the door.

 _This is my bed_ , he remembered. He knew he didn't sleep in the other bed.

He laid down on the bed like a corpse, eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling, body limp and giving nothing away. When he did this his tormentors grew frustrated and bored, and they left him alone.

He heard thumps, footsteps rising up the stairs, and froze on the bed.

 _Please don't come for me._

 _Please let me be._

His eyes didn't even follow the movement as it came by the doorway, but then he heard the old man yell "Sam, could you come down here for a moment?" He heard the sound of the person - not-Sammy - leaving, and he relaxed.

He got up and shut the bedroom door before anyone else could disturb him, locking it from his side. Then he laid down on the bed, and fell asleep peacefully for the first time in a long time.

 **Nameless**

The man was awoken suddenly, rolling off the bed into a defensive position. What woke him was a wooden thumping on the door - Sammy knocking.

"Hey Dean… you've been up here 12 hours. I brought you some food, I'll just leave it by the door," he trailed off. He lingered there for a couple seconds, and then the man heard him walk away. He was again alone.

As quietly as he could, he swung open the door, and quickly grabbed the food like a snake. It was taken inside the room, and the door shut as quickly and as quietly as it had opened. Opening the door rattled him, and if he never left this room again it would be too soon.

The man looked at the food, and felt an immense hunger gnawing at his stomach. He felt as if he hadn't eaten for days. The feeling made him flinch, a sharp jab in the pit of his stomach, as if a knife had been lodged there.

 _They're starving you again._

 _The food is poison._

 _You'll only get punished worse if you eat._

 _It'll hurt worse if you eat._

But he was so hungry. The food showed no signs of poison; everything looked, smelled, and felt the same as it otherwise would. _Of course you can't see the poison, they hid it._

But he could figure out if it was poisoned. He could check to make sure the men downstairs weren't demons. Then he'd know if the food was poison, and he could eat. He'd know whether or not he was really above. If he was safe.

If that was really Sammy.

All the man needed was holy water. There is no holy water in hell, so if he could find it, he was out of there. If they were demons, the burning would buy him time to run. Run where, he didn't know, just anywhere but here. If it wasn't enough time to run…

…Maybe it might be time to let go, then. Why had he been holding on for so long? Waiting on Sammy? Either Sammy was here, _now_ , or Sammy wasn't coming and it was time. The man just wanted the pain to end.

 _This is a terrible plan,_ he thought to himself, sternly, with a voice from so long ago.

 _If they are demons, and I do this, they might send me back there,_ he anxiously talked himself through this. _But if they are demons, and I don't, they_ will _send me back there._

First things first, the man needed to get his hands on a cross. He turned to the two freestanding dressers, and went to the closer one. He opened one of the middle drawers. Empty. He opened the second drawer. Empty. All the drawers were empty, and the sight made him inexplicably sad. He put his hand in the top drawer, and felt the smooth bottom of it as his fingers found nothing.

He closed the drawers, and went over to the other one in the corner of the room. This one was full of clothes, all flannel and jeans. The top drawer was filled with all sorts of things; containers of table salt, a small container of spraypaint, a handful of rosaries. All right, he really wasn't down _there_ anymore, but that didn't make him safe.

He grabbed one, and dropped it in the glass of water, and recited a chant he didn't know he knew to bless the water. Hearing the foreign words sent chills down his spine. The words mysteriously rolled off of his tongue, like singing along to a song he'd forgotten.

He swallowed a little bit of the holy water, in case he got hurt and they touched his blood - it wouldn't last forever, but it didn't have to. He pushed to open the door gently, and slipped out the door, creeping of the room like a panther.

The man knew these stairs, placed his weight perfectly as he walked. Muscle memory told him where to step to keep quiet. The man moved with a grace and stealth that worried him. This is what they'd beaten out of him, and his gut twisted and coiled at the thought of being caught doing the very thing he was punished for, for so long.

If the men downstairs were demons, he didn't want to tip them off about his escape, so he had to stow his worries for later. He immediately heard a quiet conversation coming from the study.

 _Bobby._

The name rung inside the man's head. Images flashed right over his vision, causing him to stumble.

 _Bobby, showing him how to hold a shotgun properly, hand wrapped over Dean's on the barrel. Bobby was much taller, beard blonde and young._

 _Bobby, playing catch in a green, grassy field with Dean on the days he was supposed to be training, tossing the ball easily over to the young man in the beautiful summer weather. Sammy was with him, running across the field, arms up._

 _Bobby, showing Sammy and him how to tie field knots, eyes crinkled with pride when they succeeded in tying a knot the other couldn't undo. The man felt like a superhero escape artist, his young fingers undoing strong knots deftly._

The man recoiled, remembered feelings washing over him. He gripped the stairwell roughly, and packed his emotions tighter and deeper inside his chest, and soon the pain faded.

The man peered around the corner of the doorway. The might-be Bobby got up and walked around the desk to put his hand on Sammy's shoulder. The two were close enough that he could throw holy water on both of them, right now; it was do or die.

He quickly rounded the corner, throwing the holy water in their faces and leapt back before he processed the results.

Sammy caught the rosary, spluttering as he tried to breathe through the water streaming down his face. Bobby was similarly covered, wiping the water out of his eyes quickly. No steam rose from their faces, and both of the men's eyes remained their light hues.

They were both frozen, eyes trained on Dean with shock and trepidation.

Soaking wet, no steam rising from them, Sammy slowly said "We're not demons, Dean," with a smile playing on his face. "It's really us," he said again, much softer.

They're not demons. _Not demons._

 _This is Bobby, and this is really Sammy._

He felt a tear, and then another, tracking down his face before he could lock his emotions down, the rest of him standing completely still in shock. His fingers began to curl and uncurl, feelings assaulting his body like they hadn't in decades.

 _Sammy, you came._

 _You finally came._

His breath caught in his throat suddenly, and his chest constricted violently. Fear overtook him, remembering what happened when he expressed emotions. _No, no no,_ his mind started humming, a high-pitched vibration practiced over decades of emotion.

A wave of panic followed leaving him standing there sucking in as much air as was possible. He grabbed at his chest, and his vision blurred from the tears and waves of emotion. He closed his eyes to try and get a handle on himself, and brought a hand up to hide his face from them. He wanted everything to stop, to just be quiet and calm down; he heard blood rushing in his ears.

Suddenly, he felt hands all over him, grabbing his arms, grabbing his shoulders, a wave of loud voices piling on. His chest contracted and he felt his heart crush with panic, felt his ribcage collapse on him. The contact was burning him.

 _Don't touch me, don't hurt me, please don't -_

The man threw his arms up in defense, instinctually locking the wrists of his combatant. He heard a yelp of pain, and backed up into the hallway before he bumped against the wall before opening his eyes.

He saw Sammy clutching his hand, and Bobby throwing a look of frustration to Sammy before focusing his attention again on him. Their faces were both covered with emotion, so thick it could suffocate him.

Suddenly, the man didn't care. He wanted to be alone, he hadn't been left alone in years, in decades, _hands poking and prodding and hurting and tearing at his flesh leaving him screaming and screaming and screaming -_

He couldn't get his legs to work, wobbly against the hallway walls.

"Dean, it's okay," Bobby soothed. "We're not going to come near you," he said, throwing another look at Sammy the man couldn't deduce. Bobby grabbed Sammy's arm, and walked both of them into the library, away from Dean. "We're just going to be back here, okay?" he said, pointing to the couch.

The show of faith bolstered the man's confidence. He wanted to be safe, be with people who wouldn't hurt him, but every time they moved the man could _see_ them lunging at him, arms outstretched, perfect rescue shattered once again as he fought and is dragged back down -

It was too much for him to handle at the moment, so he turned and ran upstairs and into his bedroom, legs returning to him in a split second. He threw the door shut loudly behind him and closed it quickly, throwing a chair behind the door for good measure even though it did nothing.

 _Safe here, they can't get you._

 _You can't be hurt if they can't get you._

He sat down on the bed, and balled the fabric of the blanket in his fists while he calmed down. Silent sobs wracked his frame as he processed the last few days. He was home, in his real home, on earth, with his real family. Memories rushed down on him, each one unlocking another in the landslide.

 _I'm Dean Winchester._

 _Hunter, brother, family_

Dean was bent over a dusty book. He had just found what he was looking for, a way to kill the monster that was terrorizing this town. "Sam," he called. "I got it!" he looked over, to see Sammy bent over similarly dusty old books. He looked up, and Dean felt adrenaline course through his veins.

Later that same day, Dean stood over a grave that was burning multicolored, and success swelled in his heart as he looked over at his brother. Sammy had a similar grin on his face, arms hanging limply by his sides from the exhaustion of digging.

The scene changed.

Bobby knocked him in the shoulder, now sitting on the couch in the library. "Idgit," he said. "I need you to pack some more salt rounds, I ran out on my last hunt," the older man said gruffly.

"Why do I have to do it?" Dean whined, poking around on the computer.

"Because you do." Bobby shot back as he walked out of the room, brooking no argument. "Besides, you're not doing anything anyways."

"Watching Sumner Glau isn't nothing!" Dean called back as he shut the laptop with frustration.

The scene changed once again.

"This is clearly not as good as Episode II," Dean insisted to Sammy, looking at the TV. New special effects zoomed around the television screen, lazer noises filling the otherwise peaceful library.

"The Empire Strikes Back is the best and you know it," Sammy said, tossing a pretzel into his mouth. The younger of the brothers and the one who enjoyed childhood, Sammy enjoyed the special effects of the newer star wars movies as well.

Dean shoved Sammy in the arm as he brought his beer up to his mouth. "You just can't appreciate the finer things," he grumbled.

Dean gasped as the memories washed over him, recalling all the emotions at once. He pushed the memories away to deal with later, forcibly calming his breathing. Dean knew what happened if he was caught off-guard.

It was a welcome surprise to see the sandwich and chips where he had left them, now verified to be poison-free. Dean reached a shaky hand to the food, and grabbed the sandwich with one hand. His stomach felt hollow, empty, empty for years and years and years - the stabbing pain registered dimly in his mind.

Conversely, the food tasted wonderful, life-changing. It had been so long since Dean tasted real, whole food. The storebought ham and wilted lettuce was the best experience Dean had in recent memory, happening right now.

 _Sammy got me this_ , he thought emotionally. _This is so good, I haven't ever had anything this good in my life._ Dean meant every word of the desperate thought, so glad that he might really be free of the pain and suffering.

 _Don't spend too much time crying over it_ , his fear said. _They might come and take it._

Dean knew, in his head, that the people downstairs were Sammy and Bobby, but that didn't stop his learned fear and wariness from asserting itself. His limbs felt light, and he didn't acknowledge the growing anxiety in his stomach. He had to keep this food down to keep his strength up.

The sandwich and chips were soon gone, Dean making a point to eat quickly, and he was still hungry. He wanted more food, but he could handle the hunger for now. He didn't want to get punished by asking for more food when he shouldn't have.

 _Sammy will bring me more._ Sammy would know when he was allowed to eat.

After a while, Dean laid down in the bed in all his clothes, and pulled the blanket right up to his neck. He was cold right from his core, but the blanket made him feel better. He knew Sammy was downstairs, and let go of a sliver of the alertness and panic that had smothered him for forty years.

This is what let the nightmares in.

 **Sam Winchester**

Dean changed in a second, from being wary of the doorway to running inside and bolting up the stairs. Sam heard a door slam shut, and he knew that it was their bedroom door.

"Looks like I'm sleeping on the couch," Sam heard himself say.

Bobby stopped the show of making sandwiches, and left the stuff out on the counter as he walked over to Sam and gave him a hug. "He's really back, Sam," Bobby said behind his back. "Be glad of that."

"But he's broken," Sam said, his voice cracking.

"Sam, it's been _ten minutes_ , give it some time," Bobby said, pulling away and holding the taller man's shoulders. "For all we know, he'll come downstairs in a couple days, shaken up but functional." Bobby let go of Sam's arms. "Wait until then to panic."

"But what if that doesn't happen, Bobby!" Sam said louder, an edge to his voice.

"Then we'll deal with it _then_ ," Bobby said, "And that's that. Right now, we have more pressing questions to answer." His voice was filled with trepidation.

"Like how he got out," Sam said, looking up. He could hear Dean and loud scraping in the bedroom.

"Bingo bango. So get reading," Bobby said as he walked over to the library. He picked a book up, and handed it to Sam. Sam took it, and wandered over to the couch to begin reading.

It wasn't ten minutes before he heard a loud scraping noise, and heard the door opening. Sam got up, and quietly ascended the stairs, not wanting to upset Dean. He peered around the corner, and saw Dean shoving their cheap metal bedframes out of the door, leaving them in the hallway. Sam walked downstairs before Dean noticed him.

"He's getting rid of our bedframes," Sam said, confused, looking to Bobby for an explanation.

Bobby shrugged. "We'll put them in the junk room, I guess," Bobby said, listening to the scraping noises. Bobby had another bedroom, large and filled to the brim with extra stuff Bobby had accumulated over the years… which would now include metal bedframes.

Sam walked up the stairs again, wanting to ask his brother what he was doing. He got to the door, but heard Bobby yell "Sam, could you come down here for a moment?"

Sam knew what Bobby was doing, but stalked downstairs upset anyways.

"I know you want to see him," Bobby said. "Believe me, I do too. But we have to give him time, Sam," Bobby said, an edge of despair in his voice.

Sam's heart folded over in his chest, settling down into a rock. "All right, all right," Sam said despairingly. He sat down on the couch, and began reading about hell.

Sam fell asleep on the same couch, the book open on his stomach, his mind filled with fears about Dean.

 **Sam Winchester**

He awoke the next morning, sunlight streaming through the window above him.

"It's about noon. I made Dean some lunch," Bobby said. "He's been up there all day puttering around." He thrust the plate of food out at the sleepy Sam.

Sam stood up, appreciative of the excuse to go talk to Dean. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and wandered over to grab the plate and glass, and trudged up the stairs. He heard Dean making noise, but his room went dead silent as he got close.

"Hey Dean… you've been up here 12 hours. I brought you some food," Sam said. He received no response from inside. "I'll just leave it by the door," he trailed off. He lingered there for a couple seconds, and then walked downstairs.

"At least he didn't have any nightmares," Sam said, sighing. "That's gotta meaning something."

"From what I've read, that's actually a bad sign," Bobby said. "Sign of something going wrong upstairs, if you go through something like that and don't have nightmares."

"Great," Sam said, plopping on the couch. "So what do we know?"

"Not much," Bobby said. "Nothing but an Angel of the Lord can pull a soul out of the pit, and I doubt one of those had a moment of pity for Dean," Bobby said, shaking his head. "Human souls definitely can't climb out by themselves." Bobby turned a piercing eye to Sam. "Are you sure you didn't do anything?"

"You've been here, Bobby," Sam said. "You've seen everything I tried."

"No deals, then," Bobby said, still suspicious.

"No deals." Sam shook his head.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm glad your soul is still intact," Bobby said, "But that raises an alarming question. What pulled Dean out," Bobby said,

"And why," Sam finished. "So if an angel were to pull someone out of the pit, why would they do so?"

"The bible doesn't say," Bobby said. "Don't think they've ever actually done it before." He shrugged.

"Do we know anyone who would know more?" Sam asked.

Bobby pierced Sam with a look. "Know more about what makes an angel save someone from the pit? No. Didn't think angels - don't think angels are real, but it's the only explanation that makes sense."

Sam sighed, and the weight re-settled in his chest. "What do we do, Bobby."

"I don't know, son," Bobby said, coming to sit down next to Sam, grasping his shoulder firmly. Sam felt his heart breaking into pieces.

At that moment, Dean sharply rounded the corner, throwing water in their faces and leapt back before he processed the results.

Sam thrust his hands out in self-defense, but instead caught a rosary. *Holy water*, he thought quickly, as he looked at his brother standing stock still in the room. Sam registered that Bobby also was hit, water dripping down his face.

Very carefully, Sam said "We're not demons, Dean," but he couldn't help but smile. "It's really us," he said again, much softer that time.

 _Please believe us_ , Sam thought desperately.

Dean was perfectly stock still, not betraying anything going on in his mind.

Then, Sam saw a single tear track down his face, followed by another.

The brothers stood there, suspended in time.

Suddenly, Dean started hyperventilating, his chest rising and falling too rapidly for Sam's taste. Dan hand reached up to grab his chest, hid his face with his hand, and Sam couldn't give a shit what Bobby said before - he couldn't stand there uselessly while Dean fell apart.

Sam reached out, and grabbed Dean's arm to pull him into an embrace. Sam was rewarded with a hand grasping his, and felt his arm slam up against the wall, Dean stoving Sam's thumb against the doorway.

Sam gave a small cry of surprise, and Dean backed up quickly, thumping against the wall, bringing his arms down to look at the two men.

Dean was breathing too quickly, and he looked defensive, ready for a fight. Sam knew this look, but he had never been on the receiving end before, and appreciated how intimidating his brother could be. Except for the tears streaming down his face, tears that the old Dean would have never let him see.

"Dean, it's okay," Bobby soothed. "We're not going to come near you," he said, throwing another look at Sam, clearly extremely frustrated with him. Bobby grabbed Sam's arm, squeezing until it hurt, and drug him back into the library.

"We're just going to be back here, okay?" he said, pointing to the couch, and pushed Sam towards it forcefully.

Sam didn't need Bobby to hurt him, he knew he screwed up. Sam turned to look at his terrified brother.

Dean had stopped crying, now completely frozen, face again trained to emptiness, teetering on the edge of stepping forward into the room with them.

 _Please, Dean_ , Sam prayed. _Please come back to us._

Instead, Dean spun on his heel and was upstairs in an instant.

Sam and Bobby both let out the breaths they were holding, and Bobby turned to look at Sam.

"You idgit!" Bobby exclaimed, eyes wide and staring at Sam. "I told you not to go near him!"

"I know, I know," Sam repeated, moving his hands with frustration. "I won't do it again, I swear."

"Better not," Bobby threatened. "I don't want to stretch out his recovery any more than you do, boy."

Sam rubbed his face. "It just sucks. He's only said one word to me since he's gotten back.

"Well he's said none to me, so you're doing better than I am," Bobby said with false bravado.

Sam looked guilty in an instant. "I'm sorry Bobby, he's your family too."

"Sam, that isn't what I meant," Bobby said with exasperation. "This is about Dean, not either of us." Bobby ran his hand through his hair, lifting his ball cap. "Now that he's sure we're not demons, we should just give him time. He'll figure out we won't… anything, soon enough."

They gave each other long looks, and went about their business.

 **Dean Winchester**

Dean woke up to the sound of his own voice piercing the still air of his bedroom. His head snapped to the door, seeing it shake on it's hinges as it was pounded from the other side.

Panic was coursing through Dean's body, as he saw he was shaking badly. He tried to stand up, but felt like a child as he tried to balance on unsteady legs. He ambled over to the pounding door, but stopped just short and leaned on the wall.

Just as he focused on the pounding, it stopped.

"It's okay, Dean," Sammy said quietly from the other side. Dean immediately felt the knot of panic in his chest loosen. "You're safe now. Nothing will happen to you here."

Dean stood at the door, shaking coming to a stop, letting Sammy's words comfort him. Sammy was here, he was safe, and nothing was going to happen to him. Dean drew a long, rattling breath as he listened to the pair of footsteps walk downstairs.

Dean went back and laid down under the covers, but sleep eluded him as he stared at the wood panel walls, studiously avoiding thinking about anything other than the comfort of the blankets.

 **Sam Winchester**

Sam was passed out at the kitchen table, having stayed up late into the night listening to Dean putter around in the bedroom, his movements all echoing off of the thin walls. Dean was too afraid to move, let alone walk or talk in Bobby and Sam's presence, but Dean seemed alert and mobile when alone.

Sam thought this was completely unfair. Dean had done nothing but save lives and give himself up for others, and he was rewarded with total insanity after 4 months of being tortured in hell. He railed against God, sure that a loving God would have done something more for someone who had given so much.

"He could have been catatonic," Bobby had said gruffly when Sam mentioned it. "Or permanently hallucinating. Lets be thankful he's connected to reality." As if they *were* sure he was connected to reality.

 _Hah_ , Sam had thought. _Thankful_. Sam couldn't be thankful for the condition Dean was in - Sam was only thankful Dean wasn't in hell anymore. Sam couldn't be thankful for the deal that led them here, for Jess's death, for their mother and their father's death and everything that led up to this situation.

So it was listening to Dean's movement that led Sam to fall asleep at the kitchen table, a beer held loosely in his hand, awkwardly bent over the decades-old wooden surface.

Sam awoke to Dean's voice tearing through his skull.

"No!" he screamed, his voice piercing through the small house. "Please! Please!"

Sam shot up and took the stairs two at a time, hearing Bobby's feet behind him as he got upstairs.

Sam ran to the door and tried to open it, but found it locked. Dread coiled around Sam's heart as he pounded on the door. "Dean, it's all right!" Sam shouted. "It's me, Sammy! You're safe now!" Sam continued his frantic pounding on the door, desperate to get Dean's attention.

Dean's screaming stopped, and Sam heard shuffling noises behind the door.

"It's okay, Dean," Sam said shakily. "You're safe now," he repeated. Dean had nightmares before, but nothing like this. Dean had never screamed in the night. "Nothing will happen to you here," Sam said to Dean. He prayed to God he could deliver on that promise.

They heard no more noise from behind the door, and Sam's hand rested on the oak surface. He wanted to stand there the rest of the night and make sure his older brother was okay.

Instead, Bobby grabbed Sam's arm and led him back downstairs, Sam full of grief. He had no idea how to help his brother, especially with Dean so unwilling to let them in.

Sam hated the way Dean raked his blank gaze over both of them, regarding anything they did as possible pain, scared eyes watching every movement.

Sam didn't blame Dean, he blamed the worthless things which did this to him, and he blamed whoever had allowed it to happen; he primarily blamed himself.

"Bobby, I hate this," Sam said desperately. "What can we do?"

Bobby's broken gaze looked back at him. "I don't know, son," he said wearily. He looked away. "I've had friends who succumbed to what being a Hunter does, ended up in hospitals… but I've never seen anyone this bad," he said sadly, "and I've seen a lot."

"I just want to help him," Sam said, flopping on the couch.

"You want to help him?" Bobby said forcefully. Sam turned, Bobby had his full attention.

"Let him make the first move," Bobby said, now chastising the younger man. "Don't so much as walk near him without getting his permission first. Every time you go near him you scare the shit out of him, Sam." Bobby said.

"But it's me," Sam whispered. "He even recognized me."

Bobby leaned back. "He may have partial amnesia, or something else we don't understand. He knows your name, but that might mean nothing." Bobby sighed. "We don't know where his head's at."

Sam looked to the side at nothing, and sat in silence for a few minutes. "It's Dean," Sam said, sighing. "He's still got all his fighting instincts." He looked up at Bobby. "We have a loose cannon in the upstairs bedroom."

"Don't I know it," Bobby said back. He sat back in his library chair, sighing as well. "This is Dean. He'll pull through this, and you know it," Bobby said quietly.

Sam nodded. "Besides, it's only been a couple of days," He said, trying to reassure himself. Bobby gazed at him said nothing, then got up and returned to bed.

Sam laid down on the couch, and fell asleep to the thoughts rattling around his head, imagining the horrible things Dean may have endured.

 **Dean Winchester**

He bit the side of his tongue to keep from crying out, the coppery blood in his mouth holding back his cries.

Knives slid into his side, separating skin from flesh, exposing muscle to the biting air…

He curled into himself, shoving his hand into his mouth to save his tongue, silent sobs wracking his body as he shook, jerked into a tight ball under the large comforter. He felt the knife rake along his side as if it were happening then and there.

Saltwater was poured onto the wound, and his body seized, jerking against the leather bindings on the old surgery table, blood dripping from his side onto the porcelain floor…

He stilled, fingers scrabbling against the blankets as the fresh agony overtook him. He couldn't cry anymore, trapped in the replay of the pain.

He felt the edges of his sanity fraying, felt his grasp slipping away. Everything was distorted and blurred, and he felt his lucidity dip in and out. He felt himself falling into the bed, the weight of the agony trapping him, his limbs far too heavy to lift, his heart far too heavy to feel.

The darkness overtook him then, creeping into the corners of his mind. This was the darkness he was so familiar with; so keenly remembered.

He felt his body go still, felt the blood drain from his limbs as he stilled. There was nothing in him anymore, no reason to move, no reason to talk.

 _Maybe I'm not real_ , he would think. The world was gray, everything moving in slow motion. _Maybe none of this is_. If this was nothingness, the endless existence of insanity, he could certainly think of worse ways to spend eternity.

He heard the trees rustle outside, heard the wind billow on the fall day, crinkling the red and orange leaves. The air smelled wonderful, welcoming back apple pies and family.

Maybe he would drift away, let his mind blow away with the wind. He sought peace. He liked not being real.

He didn't notice the passing of time; heard people talking to him through the door, far off, like a friend calling you after moving to another state. The voices were welcome, but distant. He liked hearing them speak, their voices calming and blending with the fall air.

 _They can't get anything from you if there's nothing there._

He fell backward, backward into the memories that kept him alive.

**Sam Winchester**

Since Dean had burst into the library with holy water a couple days ago, he hadn't come out of his room. Sam and Bobby knocked and left food at the door, and when they went up again with more food they found the dishes from the last meal left outside the door.

From what they could tell, Dean didn't do much when he was alone. He explored the room, but the noises of a human soon turned into crushing silence. The only time Dean made noise was at night, fighting the demons in his head. When Sam would wake up and come upstairs to talk to him through the locked door, remind him where he was, his brother would quiet down and hopefully find restful sleep again. So far, Sam was able to wake him up by talking to him, but Sam worried the day would come when they would have to break down the door.

Anxiety had been dancing through Sam's body ever since Dean climbed out of his own grave. Sam wanted to run upstairs and be with his brother, but his presence seemed to cause Dean more pain than not; Sam had stayed away, but constantly imagined Dean walking downstairs, jumped at every footstep from the second floor. He was always let down, heart sinking in his chest when those footsteps did not come down the stairs.

Sam sat at the kitchen table, books about hell poured out in front of him, when he realized it was all bullshit. Sam was pouring over stuff about hell, desperate to know what happened to Dean and how to help him, when how to help Dean was to show him he didn't have to go through this alone.

"I'm going to go talk to him," Sam declared, flipping a book closed loudly and getting up from his seat.

"Sam," Bobby said, a hint of uncertainty in his voice. _We need to let him figure this out on his own_ went unspoken.

"I know, Bobby, I know," Sam said, wringing his hands nervously. "But letting him rot away upstairs isn't going to help. I'm not going to corner him," Sam assured. "He needs support." _And I need him, too._

"Nothing serious?" Bobby asked. "You won't talk about anything serious?"

"Promise," Sam sighed, as he trudged up the stairs. No, Sam was not going to go upstairs and force a heart-to-heart on his shell-shocked brother, when the healthy version couldn't even handle one in the first place.

Sam's heart was beating wildly, nervous to talk to his brother. He hadn't seen him in four months, and he had tons of things to say. But he just wanted to hear Dean _speak_ , know Dean was vital and alive.

Sam got to Dean's door, paused, and knocked on the door uncertainly. "Dean? I wanted to talk to you," Sam led. "Not about anything serious, promise," he said, laughing lightly. He paused, but heard nothing from the other side of the door.

"I'm coming in," Sam said, putting his hand on the doorknob and praying it wasn't locked. His prayers were answered when the door swung open freely, and Sam walked slowly inside. The sight that met Sam's eyes broke his heart.

Dean was on the bed, facing away from the door, blanket up to his shoulders. He looked like he could be asleep, but Dean's body was far too still for that; he appeared as though he wasn't breathing.

It was fear. Dean was afraid of Sammy, his little brother.

Sam's heart tore into pieces as he wrung his hands anxiously, but he knew reacting to the situation in any way but normal would only exacerbate his brother's fear.

Sam dared not think about what might cause Dean to be so afraid of Sammy.

"I'm no fool, Dean," Sam said quietly, a smile on his face. "I know you're pretending." A pause, and then he said more quietly "But that's okay." Sam didn't say he understood, because he didn't.

Dean climbed out of hell, and yet he did not immediately hug Sam or make sure he was okay. Their reunion was not happy, but instead filled with pain and memories and regret, cut short by Dean's retreat to the second floor.

Sam was hurt at the lack of affection, of joy for sure, but that's not why he was concerned - he was concerned because it was so out of character.

The Dean Sam knew was happy, loving, and fiercely protective of his family. Sam knew a Dean who wrapped too much of his self-image around protecting him, and a more natural reaction for that Dean would have been to find Sam, and make sure he was okay.

But Dean didn't seek out Sam - Dean was _afraid_ of Sam, and that had him deeply worried.

Sam sat on the floor next to Dean's mattress, and settled against the wall. His nerves danced under his skin, his fingertips skittering along the floor.

He resolved to get through to Dean, even if it didn't happen today. Sam was not going to abandon Dean.

 _I'm going to start off small, make him feel comfortable_. "Thought you might want to know what went on while you were gone," Sam began, licking his dry lips. His lungs felt empty, talking about such banal things after Dean had rose from the dead. "Nothing much," he continued dryly. "I went on a couple solo hunts, but ended up sticking around Bobby's most of the time."

He had been dreaming for months about seeing his brother again, but now didn't know what to say. And here he was, filling the air uselessly with nondescriptive goings-on. Sam knew; this wasn't right.

"I searched high and low for a way to save you," he said. _I promised not to talk about anything serious…. oh well_. Sam took a deep sigh.

Dean still laid on the bed, turned away from Sam and still as death. Sam's heart broke, felt his chest crack in half, dying to know what was going on in his brother's mind.

"I looked for months. I didn't stop looking; was still looking when you came back," Sam said. "You were only… gone, for four months." _You were only dead for four months, before you were brought back to life_. He felt his throat constrict, decided to move back to simpler topics before his emotions overwhelmed the both of them.

"Nothing of global importance happened," Sam gave a humorless laugh. "As far as the world is, it is as you left it. If anything, it's been quieter. It's been strange," Sam finished lamely, figuring Dean wouldn't want to hear any of the specifics. Not in this state.

Sam let silence reign as he sat on the old, dirty hardwood floor. Dean had not moved an inch, barely even breathed, his fingertips still under the covers.

He wanted to tell Dean how much he missed him, how much he cared, but figured that it would be mean to corner him with a speech like that when he was unable or unwilling to escape.

Then Sam remembered that Dean always secretly appreciated a big speech, even if he had no idea how to react to one. His big brother relied on the acceptance and support of the little family he had.

What Dean _didn't_ like about chick-flick moments was having to react, having to show gratitude or reciprocate or express himself. Sam was always affectionate, loving and outwardly emotional about his family and friends, because Dean was always behind him and supporting him. But Dean was reserved, raised by a much colder parent.

Now was a perfect time for Sam to remind Dean that he cared, when Dean could save face and wasn't expected to react, content to continue lying still as death on the mattress. Sam took a deep breath, preparing both himself and Dean.

"Dean, I missed you," Sam said quietly. "I'm so glad to see you're safe, that you're not _there_." Sam studiously avoided saying Dean was okay, because Dean wasn't okay, and Dean didn't need reminded of it.

"You told me you made the deal selfishly, because you couldn't live without me?" Sam laughed, choked up. "Turns out, I can't live without you either." He didn't say anything for a couple seconds, letting the words sink in. "I gave up on having a real life when you left. I realized I don't want an Apple-pie life if you're not there to see it," Sam's voice wavered.

"I'm just glad you're back, Dean," Sam said quietly.

He stopped, happy to just enjoy the fact that his big brother was _not_ dead, was laying in the bed next to him. Dean didn't seem to be in one piece, but it didn't matter. It didn't matter if Dean was ever one piece again. What mattered was that Sam and Dean were together, a family.

"Please don't think you have to hide from us," Sam said. "From Bobby and I. You know me, I want to be here for you," Sam smiled again, pausing.

"But seriously. If leaning on Bobby or I, if getting help from us will make you _feel better_ , do it." Sam paused, unsure of what he was about to say, but took a stab in the dark. "You don't have to be in pain any more."

It must have hit home, because Dean's shoulders shifted imperceptibly, curling inward away from Sam ever so slightly. The movement looked enormous against the pale stillness that had come before.

Sam remained where he was for a few seconds, making needless noise with his hands against the floor to stave off crushing silence for Dean and himself, letting his brother save face, pretending not to hear Dean's uneven breaths.

When it became evident Dean was going to give Sam no more, Sam stood up. "You know where we'll be if you want us," Sam said as he walked out of the room.

He looked behind him at his brother, giving him one long glance before he closed the door. His hair was dirty and he looked more afraid than he had ever in his life, but he was back. He was here.

 **Bobby Singer**

Later that day, Bobby took the time to keep Dean company while Sam's nose was trapped in the books Bobby retrieved for him.

"I suppose it's my turn," Bobby said gruffly as he turned a chair to face the older Winchester boy, setting his feet up on Dean's bed. "I'd promise that I won't turn this into some sort of chick flick, but I can't," he said, a smile audible in his tone.

"All we've been doing since you've gotten back is worrying about how you're doing, kid. You always hated when people hid stuff from you, your daddy's "need to know" policy, so I thought I'd come out and say it," he announced. "We do spend a little of our time trying to figure out how you got out or why, but most of it is just spent worrying about you," he said.

"What do you need, Dean? What do you need from us to help you get better?" Bobby asked, after a pause. Unsurprisingly, Dean did not answer.

Bobby then opted to fill the time with mindless chatter, talking happy childhood memories and pleasant nothings from the past. He wanted Dean to feel safe, wanted Dean to find his way back to his family. He knew it would take time, but Bobby was determined to be there every step of the way.

After a half hour, Bobby got up to leave Dean alone to his own devices, hoping that giving Dean his space was the right decision.

 **Dean Winchester**

Dean was trapped, empty of feeling as he stared at his ceiling, lacking the ability or will to move. The door creaked open, and if Dean could have halted his already shallow breathing entirely, he would have. As it was, he kept his eyes trained on their same spot on the ceiling.

"I suppose it's my turn," Bobby said with his gravelly voice. Dean felt the feet placed at the edge of his bed, weighing down the mattress.

Emotions coiled in his gut, equal measure dread and joy at seeing Bobby Singer again. He couldn't override decades of instincts, instincts telling him to keep completely still, _give them nothing or they're take more and more._

"I'd promise that I won't turn this into some sort of chick flick, but I can't."

Dean couldn't find it within himself to _care_ what Bobby said, the fear travelling through his paralyzed body and shaking him to the core.

 **Sam Winchesterr**

Sam took to spending time in Dean's room, bringing his laptop with him whenever he found extra time and researching cases for Bobby while keeping Dean company.

Dean seemed resolved to ignore Sam's presence, spending the time laying stock still in whatever position he'd been in when Sam entered the room. Sam marveled at the patience and self-control that must take, but the impression turned sour when Sam remembered the likely reason for that behavior.

Sam made sure to talk whenever he had something to share, filling the room with his mindless chatter. He wanted Dean to get used to the sound of his and Bobby's voices again, wanted him to overcome any… associations, he may have built. Sam sternly avoided giving voice to the reality of the situation, to himself and to Dean.

 **Dean Winchester**

Bobby had taken to spending time with Dean as well, bringing his books along with him to Dean's room to occupy the time while he just sat with his son. Bobby let silence reign, wanting Dean to feel welcomed to move or speak up whenever he was ready - it also passed the time for Bobby, allowing him to focus on his studying.

Bobby was mindlessly raking his eyes over the same section of pages blearily when he saw Dean's hand crawl across the bed, fingers testing out movement, lacking purpose. Bobby deliberately kept his eyes down, having a feeling that Dean wanted to remain unnoticed

Dean blinked, and suddenly a tear tracked down his face. Bobby sat up quickly, shutting his book quietly.

He cursed the fact that hunters were all a bunch of emotionally stunted assholes, because it meant that he had little idea of how to handle this situation.

"Dean," Bobby said quietly. "It's okay." He wanted Dean to feel like it was okay to express… anything. He could worry about the content of what Dean was expressing later.

 **Sam Winchester**

"Hey, remember the ghostfacers?" Sam asked by way of greeting today. He sat down next to Dean, saying "Those idiots made a YouTube channel." He turned on some of the videos, ten-minute segments on imaginary monsters filling the stale air of the bedroom.

"Bigfoot is not just one monster - they're a breed of giant ape-men that prowl the forests," said Ed, his comical voice coming through the speakers.

"Bigfeet monsters roam forests, like northern america and western europe," Harry joined, tinny voice echoing off the walls.

Sam snorted, and then remembered something. "Wait, you probably don't know what YouTube is. Well, it's a website where people upload and share videos - each person uploads videos to their own channel, and they're all pretty much horrible," he said.

Sam continued to click around the internet, the sound of the ghostfacers coming to a static end.

Sam's breath caught when he saw movement from the corner of his eye.

Dean turned his head to look at Sam, blank eyes tracking over his face hurriedly, analyzing him. Sam had seen monsters and annoying police offers on the other end of that stare many times, but being on the receiving end from Dean unnerved him.

Sam didn't know what to do, and opted to act like he had no idea what was happening. He didn't want to smother Dean and scare him off, as he might have done in the past.

Dean's eyes raked over his surroundings, and he shifted his body as he turned and his gaze settled on his brother. Sam felt pressure, and put the ball in Dean's court as he continued to meaninglessly tap at his computer keys, now browsing webpages about some monster one of Bobby's friends was hunting, not really taking in anything he was reading.

Sam could feel Dean's eyes on him and the computer screen, roaming aimlessly over Chupacabras. Sam could also hear Dean's uneven breaths behind him, catching at one minute or another over seemingly nothing.

Sam's eyes landed on the information he needed - how to catch a Chupacabra - and said "I'll be right back Dean, I found what Bobby needed," regretting having to get up so quickly after Dean seemed to be coming out of his shell.

Sam looked back as he walked out of the room, and he made eye contact with his brother. Dean's green eyes peered up at him no longer filled with suspicion, but instead mirrored what Sam knew himself to look like during Dean and his' childhood. Dean looked like he needed Sam.

Sam cringed inwardly as he hustled downstairs. He shoved the laptop in front of Bobby, not bothering to explain himself before running back upstairs and knocking quickly. After a second of hearing nothing, Sam let himself back in.

Sam was met with the sight of Dean sitting up in his bed, looking for all the world as normal as anyone else. His scruff had gotten long in the last week or two and his clothes were rumpled, but normal.

Sam stood still. He didn't know what to expect. He had discussed it with Bobby, what Dean might be like when he decided to return to reality.

"We just don't know," Bobby had said to Sam. "He could have flashbacks - a lot of flashbacks - or he could be totally fine. He could be afraid of random things or be mute. These have all happened to prisoners of war before, and something tells me hell is worse than that. We don't know how he'll react because we don't really know what he went through."

Dean swallowed, fidgeting his hands, clearly unnerved by the situation. He dropped his eyes immediately, avoiding Sam's gaze.

"Hey," Sam said softly, quirking his lips up to the side. He sat down next to Dean on the mattress, sinking slightly as their weights balanced out.

Dean's breathing got quicker, and Sam wanted to help his brother relax. Whatever Dean was scared of, it wasn't going to happen here.

"Hey, it's okay Dean," Sam said. "Nothing's going to happen to you here."

Dean looked up at Sam and down again as his hands smoothed out the blanket in a nervous gesture.

Sam reached out with his hands to gently cover Dean's, hoping to bring him reassurance that he was safe with Sam.

Dean jerked his hand back and scooted away, body suddenly rigid with tension. Dean's face was schooled again into that unrealistic emptiness and his posture stiffened, emotionally drawing away so fast Sam could actually feel the air leave with him.

Sam got up, "I'm sorry Dean," he said, sincerely.

Dean turned mechanically away from Sam, and Sam understood that he had overstayed his welcome. Sam got up, leaving Dean to his deathly stillness.

As soon as Sam shut the door behind him on Dean's room, Sam's hands went to his hair and pulled. He had been so close to Dean opening up to the world again, and one stupid little thing pushed Dean away. He clawed at his face, so angry with himself as he went downstairs.

"Thanks for the tip," Bobby began, holding up the laptop, but Sam cut him off. "He sat up and looked like he was about to get out of bed to talk to us, but I grabbed his hand and he… he…" Sam ground out, hands in his hair. "I am so pissed at myself."

"What?" Bobby asked, shocked.

"He sat up!" Sam exclaimed. "And looked at me, and moved, and looked at me like a human being. He started to panic, I touched his hand and pushed him away again." Sam began to pull at his hair. "One stupid little thing."

"This is good, it's progress," Bobby insisted. "It'll take time and we're going to fuck up. We can't read his mind, Sam. So now we know - no touching of any kind, at all."


	3. Chapter 3: Terror

**Sam Winchester**

Sam woke up, back feeling awful after another night of sleeping on the couch. _I hope Dean lets me in the bedroom soon_ , he thought blearily as he rose from the dilapidated upholstery. He stumbled his way into a standing position, and trudged into the kitchen to wash his face and wake himself up.

Sam was shocked fully awake by the sight of Dean standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring straight at Sam. Dean looked casual, arms bent down at his side and sleeves pushed up past his elbows. He was completely still, as if he had been standing there all morning.

"Hey," Sam said blankly, brain working to catch up. _What do I say to him?_

Sam's question never got answered, though, as he noticed Dean's gaze was not actually fixed on him. Dean was looking through Sam, to something that Sam could not see, to something that wasn't there. Sam then saw his arms were rigid, shaking slightly against his jeans, and his eyes were tracking something not there.

 _He's having a flashback_ , Sam realized.

"Dean!" Sam called loudly, but he received no response. "Dean!" Sam tried again, walking directly in front of him, but despaired as Dean didn't respond. Sam felt out of options as he gently grabbed Dean's arm to shake him into reality.

This proved to be a very bad idea, when Dean jerked back against the kitchen counter. Several pots and glasses clamored to the floor, shattering.

Dean's eyes turned wild and wide as he yelled "Get your demon hands off me!"

At Dean's cry, Bobby rushed down the stairs, feet pounding, but stopped when he got to the bottom and saw that there was no threat. Sam gestured for him to stay back, and Bobby unhappily did so.

Sam stood back, and watched as Dean's eyes began to wildly move around the room, tracking things which only existed in Dean's memory. Dean squared his shoulders and his face turned sour, as sour as if there were a demon right here in the kitchen.

"Dean," Sam said, trying to soothe his brother. "Dean, it's okay, you're at Bobby's house. Dean, you're safe and at Bobby's house." Sam tried to make himself as small and nonthreatening as possible, quite a job for someone his size.

Sam continued speaking quietly, and soon Dean's breathing evened out as his eyes came to focus on his brother. Bobby slowly walked into the kitchen, into Dean's line of sight and out of the way of the doorway.

"Dean, breathe," Sam said, seeing that Dean was coming back to him. "Breathe for me, okay?" Sam wasn't happy his brother wasn't well, but Sam was damn glad he was able to finally help his brother out.

Dean's breathing slowed, and he cast his eyes down as his chest's movements evened out. Sam saw Dean set his jaw subtly, almost unnoticeably, a sign his older brother was frustrated. As Dean's eyes narrowed, Sam knew he was angry with himself - and embarrassed.

"Dean," Sam said pleadingly, but didn't know what to say next. "It's okay, you know," he finished lamely, knowing Dean would understand what he's trying not to say. _It's okay you're not okay._

And it _was_ okay. You don't go through hell's finest dishes and come out on the other side in one piece, but Sam knew Dean wouldn't see it this way. Dean may now be mute and traumatized, but this was still Dean, his outwardly cocky yet insecure older brother. Sam knew Dean, and Sam knew Dean was ashamed of himself for acting the way he has been.

So it was that Dean almost met Sam's eyes, flicking up for the briefest second before returning to his thousand yard stare. So it was that Dean almost let himself be comforted by his brother.

Instead, at the last minute Dean fled to his room, opting to suffer alone.

"Damnit, Dean," Sam whispered to himself. _Why can't you let me help?_ he thought, as he heard the bedroom door slam shut upstairs.

"Well," Bobby said, breathless, "What did I miss?"

"He was just standing there in the kitchen when I woke up," Sam said, running his hand through his hair. "It's like 5am and he was just standing right in the middle, as if he'd been there all night – and when I woke up, he was having a flashback. I tried to yell at him to get him to come out of it, but he didn't seem to know I was there, so I grabbed his arm, and…"

"You need to read a book, boy," Bobby said. "I'm old enough to have friends in hospitals, either from hunting or war, but you don't have any experience with this."

"And what is 'this,'" Sam said sardonically. "Post-hell syndrome? I don't think hospitals have that."

"You know, for once, this is distinctly a non-supernatural problem," Bobby said, leafing through his shelves. He pulled out a book and held it up, a medical looking text called 'A comprehensive study on shell shock,' and put it on the table.

"Shell shock," Sam said, picking up the thick book.

"The very first studies on post-traumatic disorder, actually," Bobby said. "You don't have to read this, necessarily, but it's a good starting point."

"That just feels like it's understating the matter," Sam said dryly. "Calling hell 'trauma.' Shouldn't Dean be reading something like this, if he's the sick one?"

"Dean doesn't need reminding of his problems," Bobby said gruffly.

 **Sam Winchester**

In addition to scouring the internet about PTSD, Sam had finally found some second-person accounts of hell.

Nobody had ever escaped from hell after this long and written about it, likely because those who escaped had no bodies to come back to after this long. There were accounts of people who came back to their bodies after less than 48 hours (on earth), and they reported the sensation that much, much more time passed downstairs than on earth.

Those few accounts which did exist were not descriptive, opting for a simple explanation of "being beyond the imagination of the living." This did nothing to make Sam feel better.

 _Most of the survivors went mad on earth_

 _Being likened to the insane, afraid of phantoms and memories which no longer exist_

 _Returned violent, twisted versions of themselves with bloodlust and murder_

 _It is unknown where they went after their natural death_

 _Dean has an advantage over other survivors_ , Sam thought. _he has people willing to pull through with his care and support him 100% no matter what. He isn't being called insane for flashing back to hell, nor is he being thrown into a home_. He also hasn't went darkside, and Sam was pretty sure that would never happen.

Sam couldn't help himself but keep reading, like watching a trainwreck, knowing that was what was happening to Dean right now. There was nothing for him to do about the situation except keep reading, keep taking in information about a situation which he knew nothing about.

He drifted off on that couch with a book open on his lap, drifting off into an unpleasant sleep.

 **Dean Winchester**

Dean woke up abruptly. He noticed that the house was utterly silent, and sat up promptly. He pricked his ears and heard Bobby working on cars in the distance, the clanging metal sound piercing.

He couldn't hear Sammy downstairs, and knew he might be reading or doing something quiet. Dean wanted to go downstairs, but was afraid that Sammy or Bobby might accost him.

Then again, they had both been doing a very good job most of the time pretending he didn't exist, which did make Dean's hands shake less and made his chest loosen up enough to take a breath. He had spent weeks in this bedroom, and was beginning to want to go downstairs.

Dean was wearing socks, so was silent when he put his feet on the floor and stood up. He opened the door silently, and thought that absolute silence was at least one good thing to come of what happened. It was easy for him to descend the stairs slowly, silently.

His lungs only tightened a little, and neither Bobby or Sammy had woken up again. It was early morning, and sunrise was peeking through the windows.

At the bottom, he saw Sammy passed out cold on the couch, and breathed a sigh of relief. That bedroom made him feel safe, but that bedroom was tiny and he desperately wanted to be a part of the world he missed so much. Dean's chest tore, warm emotions making his heart feel like a piece of paper being ripped in two.

He walked over to the open book, to see what Sammy was reading, and his heart stopped.

" _He spoke to things that were not there, begging them to stop what they were doing. He was unable to keep food down, becoming violently ill whenever offered more than a few bites at a time…"_

" _The episodes wracked his body, his arms and legs seizing as if they had declared their own control…"_

" _He was a victim of hell…"_

" _He never recovered."_

Dean felt his entire world shatter, and brought his hands up to his face to try and contain his reaction. He could hear the words, ringing in his head, over and over.

 _Never recovered._

Even though he was out, he was free, he would never be okay again, trapped feeling like this forever and ever _…. Please Sammy, don't think that way…_

 _I'd rather die than live like this._

For a moment, the thought of death, the thought of a final end soothed Dean's nerves. He could be free from this. But then he remembered where he'd go if he did that, and he felt his entire body break out in a slight tremor.

All the while, Sammy's book continued to lie there.

Dean didn't notice his breath catching until he saw Sammy's eyes open, looking at him. He jumped back, suddenly aware that there were tears on his face and his breathing was uneven and he was just standing there in the living room –

He took a couple steps back, chest tightening exponentially, and he quietly and quickly ascended the stairs to his room.

 **Sam Winchester**

As soon as Dean left the room, Sam looked down at what Dean was staring at, the open page in his book.

As soon as Sam recognized what it was, he brought his closed fist down on the couch in frustration. It bounced silently off, and Sam felt no better. Dean needed no reminders about the state he was in, and even if he did, this wasn't the sort.

Sam didn't think Dean was like these people, or would never recover, or any of that shit. Sam was sure Dean wasn't like any of these people, and Sam would be damned if it came to that.

 **Sam Winchesterr**

Since Dean had came downstairs a few days ago and had a flashback, he'd spent the time since puttering around in his room. Bobby and Sam could hear his feet through the hardwood floors, and they continued to try and wake him up when he had nightmares.

Sam was outside, reading, when he decided that it was too cold and that he'd come back inside. Sam took a swig of his beer as he walked into the house, and jumped when he lowered his beer to see Dean, standing still and looking outside the window.

"Hey Dean," Sam said carefully. "Feeling better?" He asked hopefully.

No response. Sam couldn't hide his disappointment from himself, feeling it pool in his chest.

Sam carefully walked past him and went to sit down on the couch, burying his nose in more tales from the pit, in the name of Bobby's advice. _"Try and act like he's not there if he decides to come downstairs,"_ so that they didn't frighten him off.

Ever since he had found out time moved differently downstairs, he'd had his nose buried in books looking for more things they didn't know, things they could overlook, things Dean couldn't say. Sam didn't know how long Dean was gone from Dean's point of view, but he knew it was more than a few slight months.

Sam closed the book, finding he couldn't sit there and read about the horrors of the pit when his brother was standing right there, remembering the very things Sam read about. He sighed, rubbing his face with his hands.

For a moment, Sam could believe Dean was his old self. He stood so casually against the window, hand loosely in his pocket and beard growing on his face. Dean had given up on trimming his beard and so had a couple of weeks worth of growth, but Dean's beard gave up growing after it got about half an inch long. Distantly, Sam thought the ladies would love it.

It was his eyes that gave away his brokenness. Where normally he may have been contemplating the September air, eyes melancholy and thoughtful, Dean's eyes were now empty, lines strong around his eyebrows, always open wider than they used to be.

Sam recognized that face from his childhood, recognized it on the face of his father. John Winchester wore lines of dread every time he dropped his two sons off at school, or left for a hunt. And when they got home, the dread vanished from his face as soon as he laid eyes on them again. Sam's adult perspective suddenly grasped what his childish one couldn't; that his father was afraid they wouldn't be there when he got back.

He turned his gaze to his older brother who started out the window, and realized what it meant for Dean. Dean didn't always believe for sure he was really out. Didn't think he'd make it out, perhaps. Didn't think he'd see his family again.

Sam stood up, and went to stand by the window next to his big brother. Dean, for all the world, showed no signs that he even recognized Sam moved. That damn emptiness was Dean's new MO. Sam was determined to get through it.

"It's okay," Sam said quietly, as close as he could get to Dean without him bolting. "You're out now, so it's all okay."

Dean turned to look at Sam, really look at Sam, and it took his breath away.

Dean's eyes weren't empty, they were green and expressive and hurting Sam's heart lurched because he was screaming, Dean was drowning in whatever he was going through —

— and Dean quickly turned back to the window, eyes empty once again.

Inside his head, Sam was pounding the window with frustration. For the life of him he didn't know what was going on inside his brother's mind, or why, and he just wanted to *help*. He wanted to reach out and hug his brother and tell him over and over that he was safe until Dean finally believed him.

But he knew that expressing this wasn't going to actually help Dean, might actually drive him away instead, so instead he sighed and went back to his books.

"I want to come over there and mother hen you," Sammy said quietly to a Dean he knew could hear, "but Bobby said to give you your own time." _Plus, you freak out whenever we touch you_ , he thought sadly. _I just don't want you to think you're alone._

 **Dean Winchester**

Dean felt his brother walk into the room as his trained blankness slid into place, the clamps on his armor shutting into place. Dean didn't respond, lacking the will to even form a response. It was as if his limbs were stone.

Dean couldn't hide his disappointment from himself when Sammy walked over to those horrible books. He knew Sammy was just trying to help him by doing what he does best, research, but he wanted Sammy by his side talking to him much more than he wanted Sammy's nose in a book. There was nothing for Sammy to learn from them, anyway, nothing he wanted to know.

Dean sighed internally and went back to staring out the window. Every tree branch, every bush moving in the distance set off warning bells in Dean's body, remembering horrible monsters exploding out from behind the undergrowth, blood everywhere as the demons charged their victim. When it was quiet, Dean could still hear their cries, their snarls from the distance, the noise filling him with adrenaline and starting up that fine shaking in his hands again.

Dean felt the agony wash over him again, and couldn't help himself before he turned to Sammy, looking into his eyes like they were a lifeline. Dean wanted to latch on to something, anything, which would take the horror away.

The concern and care he found in his little brother's eyes was welcome, so welcome, but it was stifling at the same time. Dean remembered a time when that kindness was a lie, and accepting it only came with pain, and the memory made his chest feel tight. It was overwhelming, so he looked away.

"It's okay," he said quietly, he heard from nearby. "You're out now, so it's all okay." The words washed over Dean like calm, and Dean wished that Sammy might never stop reminding him.

He wanted to reach out, to grasp Sammy's hand in his and have Sammy tell him more about how it was all going to be okay. Dean wanted Sammy to not leave, to just stand here with him and remind him that everything was okay now. He never tired of hearing that he was safe now.

Instead, his little brother sighed and went back to the couch, and hopelessness flooded Dean's veins like acid.

"I want to come over there and mother hen you," Sammy said quietly from across the house, "but Bobby said to give you your own time."

Dean didn't know how to have the strength to have his own time. He didn't have the strength to tell Sammy he needed help, didn't have the power to tell Sammy he wanted him to keep comforting him. He barely had the strength to walk downstairs, to put himself in front of these men and give reality a chance.

He wanted to tell Sammy, this one time, to mother hen him as much as he wanted. He felt his throat constrict.

 **Sam Winchester**

A few days later, Sam was picking up the dishes from Dean's room he peered inside through the door that was left cracked, and what he saw broke his heart.

Dean was sitting in the corner, a salt circle thrown hastily down around him. He sat rigidly, whispering to himself things that Sam both couldn't and wouldn't hear. His hands were wound in his hair, pulled tightly.

Sam stood uncertainly, wondering whether or not he should go inside and comfort his brother, try and bring him up and out of the nightmare he was in. But when he took a step inside the room Dean snarled ferally, not even bothering to form words.

Sam put his hands up and backed out of the room, his heart breaking into small pieces. Dean was too far gone, if he tried to come inside he might attack.

Sam walked down the stairs, tears pricking at his eyes. This was a whole new form of torture, not just being trapped inside his own mind, but having his mind turn on him and create things that aren't there.

"This is cruel," Sam said to Bobby after trudging down the stairs, explaining Dean's state. "He gets out of hell, we still don't know how, and he's reduced to this?" He fell down into a chair, burying his hands in his face.

"Think about it from his perspective," Bobby said. "To us, he went from being… like he used to, to this. But to him, he went from *the pit* to this. It's a huge step up," Bobby said, tilting his head in observation. "We need to remember that. He's much happier up there in a salt circle than where he was before."

"I know, I know," Sam said tiredly. It did nothing to ease the weight in his chest.

Bobby sighed as well. "I hate to say it, but we're caregivers now."

Sam looked at Bobby, features falling. "What do you mean?"

"You heard me," Bobby said, hard. He didn't want to explain the messed up situation any further. "We have to take care of Dean now." Bobby sighed again. "Then again, he needed that before. Stubborn boy," he said gruffly.

"Yeah, well, he wouldn't let me," Sam, drinking a beer.

"He wouldn't let me either," Bobby said, similarly drinking.

"The one good thing," Sam laughed bitterly. "Is that he might actually work through things now."

Bobby looked skeptical. "Whatever passes for working through damnation. This isn't like he was a war prisoner, Sam," Bobby said. "There is no context for this."

"Maybe there is," Sam said. "Surely other people have gotten out from bad mojo or something? And maybe they took the time to write it down."

Bobby put a finger to his lips. "I do have some old books that I haven't translated yet about pre-Christian myths about the lake of fire. They're short, but they might have what you want," he said, walking away to get them. Sam certainly hoped so.

 **Bobby Singer**

The next day, Bobby entered the living room to sit at his desk, but was greeted with the sight of Dean standing in front of the couch, staring out the window behind it. Bobby had yet to encounter Dean outside of his room, and was shocked by the sight of his eldest gazing out the window blankly.

He made a show of being uninterested and walking over to his desk for Dean's benefit, but he quickly realized it didn't matter to Dean. He seemed completely unresponsive to the environment around him, body completely still. He quickly gave up his charade of translating, and started staring at Dean as intently as Dean stared at the shrubbery outside.

His face was drawn, and his muscles were losing the strength they once had. He was by no means weak, but this couple weeks of no training, hunting or exercising was beginning to become visible on Dean's structure. His beard had stopped growing at half an inch, the fact that the womanizing hunter couldn't grow a proper manly beard always a source of amusement for the Winchester family. However, this humorous aspect now accentuated how haunted Dean's eyes were, horrendous memories more visible to his family every day.

Bobby wanted to speak to him, but didn't know what to say. Didn't know if it even mattered, since Dean would refuse to respond to him anyways. Bobby knew this was still Dean, the same Dean he and Sam had always loved, but that Dean was hiding behind layers and layers of emotional walls, built up over months of torture Bobby probably couldn't even imagine if he tried. Bobby just wanted to show Dean that it was okay, that he was safe here, that he didn't have to hide or guard himself anymore.

Bobby got up and walked around the desk, and laid a hand on Dean's shoulder. He felt Dean's breath still and his body go rigid from shock under his grasp, but he didn't let go. His hand rested there until he felt Dean relax a little, sequentially, piece by piece as Dean unknotted his muscles, as Dean closed his eyes in an effort to relax.

Bobby stood next to Dean like that for a short while, hoping and praying that his presence was creating some sort of comfort for his son. For all of his research and all of his experience with shell-shock and PTSD in the hunting community, nothing came close to what Dean was going through, and Bobby couldn't hope to know what the best course of action was.

Nobody had ever escaped from hell after this long and written about it, likely because those who escaped had no bodies to come back to after this long. Bobby refused to believe Dean would end up like the other survivors.

When Dean began to lock up again under Bobby's hand, he let go and walked back to his desk. He continued translating his library, keeping an eye on his son, but nothing else remained to be seen. What Dean was thinking was his alone to know.

 **Dean Winchester**

Dean stood alone in the living room, staring out the window, when he heard the sound of Bobby entering, as sharp as the crack of a whip. His heavy footsteps landed on the hallway floor like thunder to Dean, and Dean didn't have to turn to feel exactly where Bobby was in the room.

Two desires warred within Dean, fighting desperately to make themselves known.

The first was an overwhelming desire for Bobby to leave, to leave Dean in peace where he was. He felt on display whenever someone was around, like something to be poked and prodded and examined, studied to know more. Dean knew nobody had ever been to hell as long as he and remained human, and that Bobby and Sammy were at a loss as to how to deal with this.

The second was an overwhelming desire for Bobby to come over and talk to him, to provide him some sort of comfort and anchor in the sea of despair Dean was drowning in. Dean had been feeling need like he'd never known before, a need that intensified whenever a member of his very small family was around. His will to hide his emotions shattered years ago, but fear kept him locked away from Bobby and Sammy. Dean refused to acknowledge this, determinedly ignoring the desire for Bobby to come help him.

Dean felt him deliberately walk over to the desk, and Dean also didn't have to look to know he was being deliberately ignored. He kept his gaze trained out the window where it was and tried very hard to ignore the disappointment he felt, tried very hard to ignore how his heart felt crushed. He worked to tamp his hope down as he felt Bobby's eyes on him.

 _Don't get your hope up,_ the voice in his head said _, the man's just assessing you._

Dean felt pathetic anyways, sitting here withering away while dreaming of comfort. _You're worse than a fourteen year old girl_ , he thought scathingly. He hated himself for the way he'd been acting, moping around the house, jumping at every small noise and wanting to follow his younger brother around like _he_ was the frightened younger sibling. The frustration with himself made him want to tear his hair out, but instead it coursed through his veins like acid, and he could feel his insides corroding.

Suddenly, he felt Bobby's hand on his shoulder, and the shock strung his body tightly, every instinct to run bunching his muscles for flight. But at the same time, the warm touch from his father sent the horrible acid in his veins away, and he felt for a second like he could relax. His eyes fell shut, and enjoyed the moment of peace.

But _all good things must come to an end_ , Dean thought bitterly as images of Bobby turning on him began to dance around his mind. He felt his body lock up again, and felt Bobby just as quickly let go.

The pain returned to his limbs and lanced through his chest, and the screams of the dead howled distantly through Dean's memory, and he wondered if he would ever feel all right again.

 **Dean Winchester**

Dean was sick of sitting on his hard wooden floor, staring out the second floor window at the fall leaves. He was thrilled that there was somewhere he could feel safe and unmolested again, this bedroom where they never came inside or stayed without his permission, but Dean was beginning to find within himself a desire for more.

He had come downstairs a handful of times to this point, but was always rewarded with an ill-timed panic attack or episode of some sort. He couldn't control it, when his mind would decide to recreate things that weren't there. He couldn't control when his mind decided he was _back there_. At first, there was always a new terror to discover.

But, the voices in his head (oh how Dean _loved_ that phrase) only had about thirty or forty things they said, over and over and over. That meant Dean could almost get comfortable with them, didn't have to always _freak out_ when they started. It made his chest feel like fire and made his hands and arms tingly and numb, but that was never going to kill him, not on it's own.

What he was doing, sitting up here, was no life. There was nothing stopping him from going downstairs.

Darkness had fallen hours ago, and Dean knew that Sammy and Bobby would be turning in for sleep soon. He wanted to go down, perhaps to make _himself_ some food, get a book to read… something else than sit here alone.

Alone, the terror worked it's way through his veins, sometimes so powerful he couldn't move, couldn't breathe.

He got up and sped to the bedroom door, opening it quickly and quietly. He crept down the stairs, careful not to make too much noise.

Dean got downstairs to find that both Sam and Bobby fell asleep in the living room, books about some monster or another splayed out in front of them, alcohol near both of them. _Researching a hunt for someone else_ , Dean suspected. He was glad they were doing more with their days than just fretting about him.

His eyes found the alcohol, and he realized he hadn't had a drink since he came back. That was a very normal thing he used to do, drink all the time, wasn't it – and it wasn't like he didn't need to unwind.

Dean silently took the shot glass next to Bobby, poured out some of the whisky, and downed it. It was startlingly strong, Bobby clearly buying the effective stuff. Dean felt it warm in his stomach, and decided to grab the bottle and glass, and take a seat on the floor against the wall.

Dean felt okay right now, the comfortable feeling spread throughout his body as he observed his family. They were asleep, no opportunities for them to startle him or question him or do anything. He imagined them waking up, telling him it was all going to be okay, and the thought made his heart ache.

His eyes looked around the room as he kept drinking – he noticed that hunting books weren't the only books around Sam. There were books about PTSD, and old leather bound books whose subject matter he could take an educated guess about. He ignored the spindily pain that worked it's way up his arms at the thought.

Dean continued with the whiskey, silently, considering what he was going to do now. He was out, free, escaped, and was even aware of that fact most of the time. He didn't want to spend the rest of his life sulking in that bedroom, however safe it made him feel.

There was a time when he could go anywhere, do anything and feel all right.

 _Not anymore, Deano_ , the voice said. _You'll never be all right again_.

Sammy came, Sammy _saved him_ , and he wanted it to be worth it.

The books around Sam got him thinking – this was something soldiers had after the Vietnam war, right? And they got help? Dean could take a book from the shelf (or the laptop) and read a little bit for himself.

 _But they didn't go to hell_ , he heard someone say. _You'll never get better._

It was a little while later, Dean was significantly more drunk, and he felt like he had a significantly better understanding about all the ways someone's mind could be fucked up. Dean had deduced that he had PTSD and panic disorder and a handful of other things, and that there was a battery of medications he should be on. Bobby might be able to do something about that, if he just left the book open to this treatment page conspicuously.

Dean remembered some school counselor when he was young, suggesting an antidepressant, and his dad forcefully asserting that Dean was no weakling and 'didn't need no damn drugs.'

Dean put his head in his hands and cried weakly, because now he was a _damn weakling_ and he _did_ need those _damn drugs_.

 _Really pathetic, Winchester_ , the voice said. _Crying 'cause you need some fucking drugs to get through life._ But Dean couldn't help the way he thought there was a demon 'round every corner, in every dark place.

Dean began to pull at his hair, and some small part of him wished that one of those two would hear him crying and wake up, tell him that it was all going to be better. He hated himself for it, felt sick at the thought.

The thought of comfort immediately overwhelmed him, and he went to stand up to go to bed. But upon standing he found himself swaying significantly more than usual, and instead of being fun like he remembered it being, the sensation was frightening and uncomfortable. Dean didn't have control over himself.

It was then that Sammy chose to wake up, groaning as he sat up. Dean flinched, and immediately backed up against the wall, unsteady on his feet. The panic stirred in his chest, slowed by the whiskey and exhaustion, and Dean began to draw shallow breaths.

"Dean?" Sammy said, eyes open. "Are you drunk?"

Dean's swaying against the wall was Sammy's answer, as Dean looked at the floor. Yeah, he was drunk, and it was a lot better than being sober. Being drunk meant that he didn't immediately run away when Sammy spoke to him, and that he could leave the bedroom without having a complete episode. Dean felt the bitterness pool in his chest at the thought.

"Are you okay?" Sammy blearily asked. "No, don't answer, stupid question, I meant… are you too drunk, do you need help…" he mumbled awkwardly.

The image of Sammy sitting there proverbially stumbling over his own two feet made Dean laugh, just a little bit.

Sammy looked up, shocked, and Dean supposed he hadn't laughed in… ever.

"Did you just scoff at me?" Sammy asked. He looked utterly confused, and the image of baby Sammy rose to Dean's mind. A little Sammy asking questions about this, and that, and the world, and Dean smiled. He liked his baby brother. Dean felt a warm feeling in his chest, and this time instead of being painfully large and uncomfortable, it was nice.

 _Oh this is pathetic_ , he heard a demon's voice say as clearly as if it were next to him, _Crying over your fucking family, how fucking sweet_.

Hearing the demon in the room startled Dean, and he jerked toward the voice before he could stop himself. He saw nothing, and fear skittered through his chest.

"Dean?" Sammy asked again, confused. Dean saw him shaking Bobby awake, and the pressure in his chest tripled.

 _Oh look, the whole audience is here_ , the demon jeered. _To watch the show!_

Dean couldn't help himself and jerked towards the voice again, cursing himself for not just standing still and not responding. The thought of his mistake made fear dance down his legs, made his already swaying stance visibly unsteady.

He felt confused and dizzy, and brought a hand up to his head instinctually, as if steadying his head on his neck would steady the world.

Dean didn't realize he was holding the (much emptier) whiskey bottle until he felt it being pulled out of his hand, and looked down to see Sammy grabbing the bottom of the bottle and trying to take it from him. Instinctually he let go and took a step back, his whole posture pointing down in deference, before he realized what he was doing.

 _Wow, now you're obeying your little brother_ , the demon piped up from behind him. Dean turned his head, but didn't fully move his body from surprise this time. It's voice made cold dread creep down inside his body like ice.

Sammy carefully put the bottle back on the desk, and Dean noted how Bobby was awake and sitting there, casually watching from his chair.

"Are you really sure you should be getting this drunk, Dean?" Bobby asked, ever so casually.

Dean briefly thought Bobby could go shove it, and a slight sneer crossed his features, before his own voice rang out in his head with cruelty.

 _Wow, we're into self pity now_ , his own voice said. _Looks good on you_.

Dean flinched as he felt the hatred and the pain creep down his chest, and he felt his chest grow tight and pained. He put his hand up to his sternum, and pressed down to try and make the pressure from inside go away.

Dean thought he heard a humming start up in the house, and ducked his head down to avoid it. The pressure was building up into pain behind his ribcage, and he felt like his bones might break from it. He wrapped both arms around his chest, and bent over, sliding down the wall into a sitting position.

"Hey, hey, hey," Sammy's soothing voice said, and it washed over Dean like balm. "What's going on, what do you want?"

Dean's arms started trembling, and he felt that cracking pain in his chest for the millionth time as he thought that he just wanted Sam to sit here next to him and tell him that it was all okay now. That hell's burning wind and dry heat and sand that cracked your skin wasn't coming back, and Dean felt his eyes water and his hands shake at just the thought.

"It's okay, Dean, you're safe here," Sammy consoled, sitting down across from Dean.

Dean was so happy that Sammy chose to sit down next to him that he felt the warm feeling in his chest burn, pleasantly, the way your feet burn when you put them by the fire on a winter day. He just wanted to feel warm inside again, and tears leaked from his eyes.

"It's all right, nothing is going to hurt you here, it's just Bobby and I…" Sammy's voice continued in his ear, and Dean's whole attention hung on his voice as he continued to speak softly, tell him that he was safe here.

Dean saw Bobby sit next to Sammy out of the corner of his eye, and instead of feeling terror he felt more of that comforting warmth spread throughout his veins.

He thought he heard the demon, or himself, whispering in the background, but when he turned his head he couldn't make out what they were saying. He didn't want to listen anyways; he wanted to listen to Sammy tell him it was going to be all right.

Eventually Dean's head pitched forward, and he passed out.

 **Sam Winchester**

Sam's extremely light sleep was disturbed by a quiet whimpering sound, and he groaned as he turned around and cracked open an eye to see what on earth it could be.

When his eye landed on Dean, sitting with a nearly empty bottle of whiskey and crying quietly against the wall, he woke up a lot quicker.

Sam watched as Dean got up unsteadily, his weight shifting against the wall. He noticed Sam, and visibly flinched away from his gaze, and Sam could see Dean balling his hands into fists, still swaying against the wall.

"Dean?" Sammy said, shocked. Except for the flashback, Dean hadn't left his room, and here he was unsteadily standing against the wall holding a bottle of 120. "Are you drunk?"

Dean continued to stand where he was, looking down at the ground with what seemed to be a surly expression. It wasn't full and communicative, but it wasn't an empty thousand yard stare.

Sam was stunned to be presented with this sort of opportunity, so soon after waking up, and so proceeded to say something he knew was stupid the moment he said it.

"Are you okay?" Sam felt the words leave his mouth. "No, don't answer, stupid question, I meant… are you too drunk, do you need help…" he mumbled awkwardly.

Instead of doing… whatever Sam feared, Dean made a little scoffing noise looking at the ground.

Sam was floored. Dean was for all intents and purposes a skittsh animal these days, and instead Dean was in the living room, belligerent and drunk. Laughing at him.

"Did you just scoff at me?" He said indignantly, sitting up straight.

The smile grew on Dean's face as he continued staring at the ground, and Sam's chest swelled as he thought that of all things, extreme drunkenness would improve Dean's outlook.

But just as soon as Dean's smile grew it faded again, and the joy in Sam's heart faded a little. That uncertainty turned to fear, as Dean snapped his neck to the side to look at something that wasn't there. The movement was very sudden and exaggerated, and it made chills travel down Sam's spine.

Sam got to his feet swiftly and went to wake Bobby up, because a Dean that was having a full blown psychotic break in the living room was not something he could deal with on his own. "Dean?" he said, as Bobby opened his eyes.

Dean jerked around at the unheard noise again, eyes open wide with fear as he looked behind him for the source of the disturbance. He swayed from the turning, and brought his hand up to his head.

"Damnit," Bobby whispered, as he saw how much of the bottle Dean drank.

Sam came to his senses, and slowly approached Dean. He didn't seem to notice, swaying drunkenly, until Sam closed his hands around the bottom of the bottle Dean wasn't holding, pulling it away from him without touching. Dean immediately jumped back when he noticed Sam, but he gave up the bottle freely.

Sammy carefully put the bottle back on the desk, and Dean noted how Bobby was awake and sitting there, casually watching from his chair.

"Are you really sure you should be getting this drunk, Dean?" Bobby asked, ever so casually.

Dean looked up and slightly sneered at Bobby, much to Sam's surprise. It was so very _Dean_ that it warmed Sam's heart.

What wasn't very Dean was the way that the sneer turned immediately to pain, and then to fear, reaching his shaky hand up to his chest. What wasn't very Dean was the way he slid down the wall, wrapping his trembling arms around his ribcage while he did so.

"Hey, hey, hey," Sam said, creeping forward. "What's going on, what do you want?"

Dean's trembling just increased, his head dipping further and further down as he shook. Sam thought distantly that he might rattle apart.

"It's okay, Dean, you're safe here," Sammy consoled, sitting down cross-legged in front of Dean.

Dean's shaking slowed down some, and tears leaked from the corner of his eyes as he curled in on himself more. Sam surmised that Dean was finally letting him in, alcohol or not, and Sam was going to take advantage of it.

"It's all right, nothing is going to hurt you here, it's just Bobby and I…" Sam continued, rambling for Dean's benefit.

Sam noticed bobby get up and sit on the floor next to him, not saying anything, just trying to be there for Dean as well.

Dean just kept listening, his shaking calming down more and more. Every so often he would turn his head and open his eyes in fear, and start shaking, looking for something that wasn't there. But eventually he stopped, his head tipping down, his hands only slightly shaking.

Eventually that stopped too, Dean suddenly going limp against the wall.

"D'you think he's out?" Bobby asked quietly.

Sam gingerly poked Dean, half expecting him to fly up in fear, but he merely tilted slightly and stayed out.

"Come on, help me get him up," Sam said as he grabbed Dean's arm and lifted. Bobby grabbed under the other arm, and Dean stayed out as they drug him up the stairs, through the door and plopped him on his mattress.

"He's –" Bobby started, but Sam cut him off with "Don't say it," huffing.

"I hate to suggest it, but he's been wearing those clothes for…." Bobby said, stopping to think, and said "Since he got out."

"Don't want him waking up and freaking out over where his clothes went, though." Sam sighed. "No, we'll let him wear his smelly alcohol clothes for as long as he wants."

They both stood there a little while longer, exhausted, staring at Dean sleeping on the mattress. He wasn't screaming, tossing, turning, restless, or even shaking – he was just lying there, peaceful.

"He's only peaceful because he's passed out cold, though," Sam said to what they were both thinking.

Bobby turned to go back downstairs, and picked up the book Dean had left open. Bobby noticed it while they were sitting across from Dean, but waited until Dean was out to pursue it further. It was open to a page about treating panic attacks, detailing the sort of drugs that people use and why they work.

Bobby was shrewd and figured Dean left this open to this page intentionally, and even if he didn't it would be wise to get the drugs and give Dean the option.

 **Dean Winchester**

Dean woke to a pounding headache the next morning and a glass of water next to his bed, which he turned and downed greedily.

The second thing he noticed when he woke up was crushing shame. It was dull and painful in his ribcage. A memory of crying in front of Sammy flashed through his mind, and he felt the distinct urge to claw at the skin on the back of his arms.

Another memory flashed through his mind, of the warm comfort of his brother, and equal parts happiness and shame danced through his heart.

He opted to turn over in bed and curl into a ball instead, hiding inside himself.

Deep in his head, where he couldn't hear Sammy or Bobby downstairs or any voices in his head, it was calm and he could hide.

Under the warm covers where nothing changed, Dean lost track of time. The pit in his center grew and grew until it consumed him, until Dean felt nothing but emptiness. He felt his limbs turn to stone, and he stayed where he lay.

 **Nameless**

He heard people knock on the door, come in, speak. He couldn't tell what they were saying, he couldn't even tell who was speaking. He heard their gentle murmuring in the back of his head, and he let it drift by.

He felt his limbs like stone, and he knew that if he stayed this way, nothing would happen to him. He didn't think, didn't breathe, so he didn't exist.

 **Sam Winchester**

Sam thought they made a lot of progress the other night when Dean had come downstairs, but the past few days were making him feel like he was wrong.

He came up to Dean's room to chatter mindlessly in his direction, as per usual, but Dean seemed even more withdrawn than he was before. Dean was beginning to breathe normally, repositioning the blankets where he sit or lay every so often, but he went back to his MO of complete invisibility.

Even worse, he had started rejecting food or drink, and Sam couldn't even hear him moving around when nobody else was in the room with him. One step forward, two steps back, and Dean had no more steps back to go.

 **Bobby Singer**

So it was that a few days later, Bobby knocked on the door to Dean's bedroom, where he had remained since he got drunk.

"Dean," Bobby said, "I'm coming in."

Bobby turned the doorknob and found it unlocked, their mutually-agreed-upon sign for invitation. Bobby found Dean sitting on the floor, staring out the window as he often did.

Dean was on his side on the bed where they last saw him. The water and uneaten food piling up at Dean's bedside was beginning to seriously worry Bobby, but he put it out of his mind to let Dean know what he had.

"I saw that book you were reading was turned open to some medication, so I went ahead and got it for you," Bobby started, "And don't ask where. But they're here for you, and here's the info sheet on the drugs if you want it."

He set them next to his bed beside everything else that was piled up there, and decided to let Dean be as he closed the door on his son.

 **Dean Winchester**

The word medication pricked something in his mind, and he returned to himself slowly, feeling like he was coming up through layers of water. Bobby saw what he had been reading, Bobby knew what to do, Bobby brought something that might help.

As the bedroom door clicked shut, Dean rolled over, sensation returning to his tired body. The hunger he felt suddenly pierced him and he groaned, grabbing some chips that were left beside his bed and devouring them hungrily. He followed it with one of the glasses of water, and the panging inside his gut quieted.

It was then that Dean saw the medication, put on top of a book titled "The Body Keeps the Score," with something about trauma and healing on the cover, with an info sheet about the drugs. Dean knew how worried about him they must be, for one of them to swallow their pride enough to walk into the self-help section of a bookstore. Dean dimly remembered being that way once, too.

It was funny how pain changed things.

The prescription bottle said Xanax, and Dean recognized the drug as something people abused, although Dean didn't know how or why. The description said "take up to two as needed," and the sheet said it was used to calm anxiety and panic.

The thought of taking drugs or being dosed up turned Dean's stomach, and he pushed away the book and meds and turned over. Even just thinking about taking a drug he didn't know made panic climb into his chest, and dimly he registered it as ironic that he was having a panic attack over a drug designed to stop panic attacks. As it is, his breath became shallower, and he couldn't help the thoughts that leapt into his head unbidden.

Being forced to take potions, mixtures, pills, eat poisoned food…

It became more normal to see Dean up and about out of his room, sitting on the couch, or in the kitchen or standing around the house not doing much of anything. Whenever they walked into a room and found him, Sam and Bobby continued doing whatever it is they were doing, just making sure to ask him if he wanted food or water every so often.

They learned he wouldn't eat or drink, or be seen moving in front of them, but that if they handed him food he would take it up to his room to eat. They were just glad he was coming out of his shell enough to be out of his room.

 **Dean Winchester**

"Dean," he heard from behind him. Sammy stood at the doorway to the living room, leaning faux casually against the frame. He pitched forward and walked inside. "You feeling all right?"

Dean didn't say anything as he turned to look away, settling comfortably into his seat on the couch. Sam had a pained look on his face, and Dean dreaded another bout of interaction from his brother. Even though he didn't have to answer, or even react, he still felt pressure every time they came about, as if the two of them were waiting on something from him.

"Don't get worked up," Sammy said lightly, seeing his brother's distress. "I just wanted to make sure of something…" he trailed off. "You've just, seemed so, so unhappy, you know?" Sammy started to mumble.

Dean wanted to groan at the silence that Sammy let grow. He was certain that whatever Sammy was upset about was nothing, or that he shouldn't be worked up about it in the first place.

"You're glad you're back, right?" Sammy said suddenly. "I mean," he followed up hastily, "Here. On earth, with us."

Dean turned to Sammy, too stunned by the idiocy of the question for thought or fear. This was the thing he dreamed about, day in and day out, for decades.

"What kind of a question is that?" Bobby said, coming in from the hall. "Normally when you're harassing the poor kid I give you some privacy, but I can't let that go," he grumbled. "You do realize where he was before, yes?"

Dean's stomach lurched forward horribly at the mention of it.

"Yeah, of course," Sammy said. "I've just been worried about you, Dean." He opened his mouth, and let the words flow out before he could think better of them. "You seem so adrift, and I just want to help somehow."

There was no trace of Sammy's characteristic little-brother tone, nor no manipulation for him to spill his heart. It was laid bare, open and honest. Dean was taken aback by the sincerity, keenly aware Sammy would have never been this open if he were not - _don't, don't think about it._

"You've made that painfully obvious," Bobby said, grinning slightly, "By the way you corner him every couple minutes. Let Dean be Dean, Sam," he said gruffly.

"Fine," Sammy said lightly, grabbing a magazine shoved behind a shelf and tossing it in Dean's lap. "There, reading porn in the living room. That's our Dean."

Busty Asian Beauties lay in his lap, torn from it's secret hiding spot by Sammy. _Probably should have hidden that better, before…_ Dean thought absent-mindedly.

Then Dean looked down at the scantily clad women on the cover and felt the faintest stirring of arousal in his limbs. His stomach lurched in revulsion, and he threw the magazine across the room as he leapt off the couch and bolted to the nearest bathroom.

He couldn't stop himself from emptying the little in his stomach into the porcelain basin, couldn't keep the memories from rushing over him. He desperately wished he could keep his body from reacting slightly to the remembered horror, and he dug his fingernails into his jeans to keep the feelings away. The pain only upset him more, and cursed as he felt tears track down his face in the dirty bathroom.

Dean remembered his old life, how he was primed and ready, looking for a fun night with a fun girl wherever possible. He would saunter into bars, know exactly what to say and do to get a girl to spend the night with him; his partners were always willing for a no-strings-attached night out.

When Dean returned to earth, that same body with those same cues and habits returned with him, and his body easily reacted to whatever stimulus was presented. Dean shakily kneaded his forehead, angry his body would work against him this way. Something which brought him pleasure before, even if only superficially, was now going to throw him violently into flashbacks. He hated this.

After Dean sufficiently cleaned himself up, he exited the bathroom and trudged up the stairs as quickly as possible, eager to avoid the prying eyes of his family. He knew it was probably a lost cause, but Dean didn't want them figuring out what he was going through.

 **Sam Winchester**

Dean flew off the couch, and could be heard seconds later retching. Sam cringed as he willed himself to, this time, _not_ consider what might have upset Dean so thoroughly.

"You might want to get rid of those," Bobby said, looking as terrible.

 **Dean Winchester**

Dean ran upstairs, and pulled out the knife he had hidden in his boot. He hadn't removed it or considered it until now, but he turned the sharpened blade in his hand. He locked the door as he sat down on the mattress.

Before he knew what he was doing, he drug it along his arms, watching blood pool from the diagonal lines. The pain registered dimly, but instead of fear it it absolved him of his pain.

He deserves this, for not even being able to look at an attractive woman without throwing up, for having nightmares about Allistair and what he did…

He felt the knife keep going. He deserved this for being the pathetic sack of shit he was being. He deserved this for being weak when he was supposed to be the older, stronger one.

Instead of panic and fear at the pain, as the knife ran along his arm he felt calm.

He wrapped his red flannel shirt around the wound, and realized that despite all logic he felt better. Focusing on the pain calmed his frantic mind, and his thoughts slowed as he wrapped the wound.

He crawled into bed and fell asleep, feeling better as blood seeped into the shirt wound around his arm. He drifted off to sleep in the comforting feeling of his bedsheets.

 **Dean Winchester**

Dean woke up to something being stabbed into his skin, and he jerked backwards into the wall to see Bobby standing over him, holding a now empty needle and vial with Sammy standing not far behind him.

His chest blossomed into pain immediately, unable to take a breath seeing his blood all over the sheets. He looked up to see Sammy and Bobby in pain, _in pain_ because _he hurt himself_ and they were _in pain_. Dean's hands and arms hurt, their tingling reaching all the way up to his shoulders and starting in his feet. He curled around himself, afraid.

Instinctually, Dean started looking around the room for scape, but when he tried to get up to run and hide himself he felt his body not cooperating. The painful, tight feeling in his lungs and his frantic protests quickly turned sluggish, and then Dean's memory cut out.

 **Sam Winchester**

Sam climbed the stairs to check on Dean an hour or two later, knocking on the door. After receiving no response, Sam called "Dean, I'm coming in."

Sam was not prepared for what he found.

Dean was asleep in his bed, but next to him lie his discarded knife, it and the sheets covered in Dean's blood. One of Sam's shirts was torn and hastily wrapped around both of Dean's arms, and Sam could see cuts of all shapes and sizes on Dean's forearms, blood staining the ripped up shirt.

"BOBBY!" Sam yelled down the stairs. He could see the shallow rise of Dean's chest as he ran to his brother, checking for a pulse and looking over the wounds. His pulse was strong, but his cuts were deep… Dean appeared to just be sleeping.

"Bring sedatives!" Sam yelled, a little more quietly this time.

Dean was not on death's door, and if this was a suicide attempt, it was a poorly executed one. Dean knew enough of human anatomy to get it right the first time, and these cuts were in all directions – not intentionally 'down the road,' as suicide attempts are.

Sam knew that to get Dean cleaned up would cause Dean pain, and he and Bobby together could not restrain him.

Bobby rushed upstairs with a needle and vial, and to his credit did not stop to be shocked but immediately came over and jabbed the needle into Dean's arm, quickly assessing the situation and coming to the conclusion Sam had.

Dean immediately woke and launched into a fight, but his frantic escape quickly died down. Soon, Dean was dopey against the wall, unresponsive to what was going on around him.

"It's a large dose of roofies," Bobby said, by way of explanation.

"Why do you have a large dose of roofies?" Sam asked, heartbeat slowing down as he took stock of the situation.

"It's a legal sleeping pill overseas," Bobby replied, similarly taking a moment to slow down/

"That's not why you have roofies," Sam quipped back.

"Dean doesn't need to remember this," Bobby said, and Sam quite agreed.

Sam walked over and put Dean's arm around his shoulder, and instead of fighting Dean made a minimal attempt to support himself, so it was easy for Sam to maneuver Dean into the bathtub in the bathroom across the hall.

Sam did his very best to tamp down his emotions until he was done dressing these wounds. They had plenty of time to speculate later what this was and why he did it, and right now Sam needed to make sure these wounds didn't get infected.

Soon enough Sam was done, and he was maneuvering dopey Dean back into the bedroom, where both beds had a fresh pair of matching sheets. Even though Sam wasn't sleeping in here, he appreciated that Bobby made that effort for Dean as he laid him on the bed.

 **Sam Winchester**

Dean safely taken care of, Sam furiously swept the house for weaponry. Cleaning a hunter's house of weapons seemed like simultaneously an impossible and preposterous task, but right now he'd take an unlikely monster attack over a Dean that didn't seem to have a sense of self-preservation.

"Why would he do that?" Sam cried, pacing downstairs frantically, after they'd locked all the weaponry in the panic room.

"I find the possibilies too haunting to consider," Bobby said hollowly, sitting behind his desk completely still.

"What do you mean?" Sam said, still pacing around the lower floor of the house, wringing his hands.

"Well, think about it. He's not some marginalized teen, he wouldn't do this unless…" Bobby said, at a loss. "He just spent years at the hand of eternal agony, I find it very unlikely he would turn to pain, to cope with memories *of pain,*" Bobby emphasized.

"But then why?" Sam pleaded as he came to a standstill. He continued to wring his hands.

"Like I said," Bobby repeated. "I don't want to consider it." His voice was eerily empty and firm.

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "But he doesn't talk anymore, and we can't just let this…" he said, bringing his hands out.

Bobby pursed his lips, closing his eyes. "Maybe he thinks he deserves it."

"What?" Sam cried, louder than he might have liked. "How could he think that!"

Bobby put his hands up, frustrated with the situation. "Who knows what shit those demons filled his head with, Sam. Whatever they told him, he seems to be buying it, and if *I* were a demon, I'd want Dean Winchester to feel like shit for banishing me and my kind."

Sam sighed. "I know, I know, I just…. I don't like considering this. Any of this."

"He wasn't big on self-love _before_ , he ain't gonna start now of all times," Bobby said. "So, what, we just go tell him he isn't… whatever he thinks he is?"

"About the size of it, I guess," Sam said, dropping his hands. All that was left to see was how Dean was when he woke up.

 **Dean Winchester**

Dean sat in the bedroom, resisting the urge to pull his bandages off and tear at his hair. He couldn't even reconcile correctly, he was bad and wrong when he tried to punish himself for being bad and wrong. He was a useless, horrible sack of shit, a drain to his entire family and his one attempt to try and correct some of that uselessness was bad in and of itself. Dean felt hopeless, he didn't know what to do.

He heard a knock, and then Sammy let himself in. Dean turned away from the door immediately, facing the wall and the too-high nightstand instead. He curled away from his little brother instinctively, not wanting to see what a failure he was written all over Sammy's face. Dean screwed his eyes shut and shut himself down, preparing himself for the fatal blow of his little brother's words.

Instead, what he heard was "You've done nothing wrong, Dean."

Dean didn't dare to breathe.

"We don't know why you did this, but we aren't angry with you, upset with you, or anything like that. We're concerned for you, Dean - we want to help."

Dean felt a tear leak out of his screwed-shut eyes, hated that he had turned from bold hunter to crying, pathetic mess. The urge to hurt himself, to make the pain _stop_ , returned in full force.

He felt nauseous, remembering how it actually made him feel better, but then remembering the looks on Bobby and Sammy's face when they found him. Couldn't…

Dean hated himself for thinking this, but _couldn't they just leave him alone?_ Then he wouldn't be disappointing them. The flames burned in his chest, and he was sure that a piece of hell escaped and started to live inside him.

 **Sam Winchester**

Sam went upstairs when he heard Dean wake up, to find him stock still in the bed. Sam didn't expect anything else, and Sam couldn't even begin to guess at what Dean was feeling – he didn't even know why Dean did it in the first place, let alone how he was feeling now that he was… 'caught?'

 _But there's no punishment coming_ , Sam thought, shaking his head.

"You've done nothing wrong, Dean." Sam said this forcefully, hoping Dean might hear him and believe him.

Dean didn't dare to breathe.

"We don't know why you did this, but we aren't angry with you, upset with you, or anything like that. We're concerned for you, Dean - we want to help."

Dean was angry, for some unfathomable reason hiding it deeper than he'd ever done before, taking it out on himself. Sam was stricken, uncertain as to what he could say which would improve the situation.

He could say 'Dean, you have no reason to be angry with yourself,' but Sam thought that would go so far over Dean head he might as well not say it. He could say 'Dean, it will be all right,' but would Dean, in this state, believe him? Sam sighed. He didn't know if Dean had the sort of faith in him that he had always had in Dean. He cursed their years of distance, he cursed the fact that they'd never learned to communicate - perhaps if they had, Sam could have saved Dean from this pain.

"I love you, Dean," Sam said, the only thing he could think of. "Bobby too."

 **Sam Winchester**

"This is awful," Sam cried as they listened to Dean.

He had snuck downstairs and robbed them of a bottle of alcohol, and in his drunkenness forgot to be quiet while he was upstairs alone in their room. They could hear his quiet sobbing through the thin floors in Bobby's house, and could hear every so often when he hit furniture, or possibly himself.

Sam had resorted to his own glass of alcohol listening to the misery, and neither he nor Bobby could bring themselves to turn the tv on or try and drown it out. They didn't go upstairs because they weren't sure what they could even do, and thought that even in this state, Dean was a grown man entitled to his own privacy.

But apparently in his privacy, Dean had switched from just puttering around to actively trying to destroy himself.

It was not long before they heard the sounds of Dean throwing up in the upstairs bathroom.

Both Bobby and Sam fell asleep with alcohol that night, too.


	4. Chapter 4: A Step Forward

**Dean Winchester**

The pie sat on the table, in front of a Dean who was feeling the full effects of sleep deprivation and starvation. He was in a white room, tiled floor to ceiling with white porcelain tiles, and a drain in the center.

Dean knew the drill; if he tried to eat, the food would surely be poisoned with something non-lethal but excruciating, but *shit* he was so hungry and tired… he dipped forward in his chair, passing out from hunger.

When he came to, he was delirious and couldn't resist; he shoved the food into his mouth greedily, unable to resist food any longer, thinking the pain would be worth the end to this hunger.

But as the white-hot feeling of a knife began to drag it's way up his veins…

Dean woke up abruptly for the thousandth time to Sammy banging his palms on the door, shouting for him to wake up. Dean's throat was hoarse and scratchy, and Dean turned to the bedside to drink one of the glasses of water that was sitting at the bedside.

This time, instead of waiting for Sammy to go away, something possessed Dean. He snuck up quietly, creeping toward the door, putting his hand on the lock. Sammy was still banging on the door loudly, unaware that Dean had gotten up so quickly.

Dean turned the lock, making a distinctive clicking noise, then ran back to his bed. He was under the covers again before Sammy got inside. As soon as he was inside Dean regretted what he did, anxiety beating against his ribcage.

"Dean, it's okay," Sammy began, the almost-customary litany of comforts, and the knot of anxiety eased a little in Dean's chest.

Eventually Sammy quieted but didn't leave, falling asleep on the mattress next to Dean. Dean hated that it made him feel better, relief and bitterness settling into his limbs.

 **Dean Winchester**

Sammy started sleeping in the room with Dean from now on, but spent most of the days downstairs leaving Dean to his own devices.

Dean spent most of his time sleeping, except for the dead of night where he would wake up suddenly. Turning to see Sammy peacefully sleeping in the other bed never failed to make him feel better, make him feel like there was something right with the world.

Other nights, Dean would wake screaming, and it was always to Sammy next to him, talking him down. It always helped him feel better, and he was finding it easier and easier to calm down after nightmares with Sammy next to him instead of banging outside the door.

During the day, though, when he was upstairs alone or during the dead of night when he would sit and peer out the window, Dean began to feel more and more alone. They didn't know what he was thinking or feeling, and for once in his life he wished that someone did.

But how could he describe the piercing emptiness in the pit of his chest, that swallowed him whole and made him feel as if he never escaped.

 **Sam Winchester**

Dean had started letting him sleep in the bedroom again, and Sam's aching back was glad of the relief. Their mattresses were big and thick enough to be comfortable even on the floor, and Sam finally had room to stretch his gargantuan body fully instead of being cramped into the small seating cushions.

Sometimes Sam would wake up in the middle of the night and open his eyes to see Dean sitting by the window, looking into the moonlight. His eyes weren't empty and expressionless like usual, but instead reminded him of the thousand-yard stare of WWII veterans he had seen in history textbooks.

Sam would always close his eyes to give Dean his privacy, and try to ignore his heart breaking in his chest into a thousand pieces.

 **Sam Winchester**

They seemed to reach a plateau lately with Dean, where he would come downstairs for an hour a two or day, go upstairs, have his nightmares, doing nothing all the while.

It was one of the days that Dean had wandered downstairs and sat on the couch that Sam could no longer ignore the questions itching in the back of his mind.

"Hey Dean…." Sam started, trailing off… but then Sam gathered his nerves. "Are you able to speak?" Sam suddenly asked, quietly.

The thought had occurred to him that Dean may not have been speaking because, for some reason, he wasn't able. Bobby and Sam had been assuming it was because he did not want to, that he had been... _conditioned_ , not to.

Dean just started back blankly at him, with the empty look he wore so often these days. What was going on with Dean behind that blank mask?

"Or do you just not want to?" Sam asked again, eyebrows pinching.

Dean looked down at his hands, face still empty. Sam wanted to know so badly what was going on behind those empty eyes; was Dean still in there, just hiding behind a façade, or was he really as empty as he looked?

Sam kept looking, but could discern nothing behind Dean's eyes as he looked down, impossibly still.

"I highly doubt the managers of hell wanted him talking," Bobby said as he walked in the room a couple seconds later. He turned his eyes to Dean, pride on his face. "You were probably a pain in the ass when you did."

Sam laughed inside, because he could imagine the first few days, at least, Dean telling them to get bent at every turn. But the reality made his insides turn cold.

Dean looked up, turning his gaze to both of them. His eyes looked between both of them, observing them as one might observe a well-manicured garden in the spring; analytically, almost with disinterest. It was the look he wore so often these days, guarding whatever was going on inside of him.

Suddenly, something changed.

Dean put his face in his hands and rubbed his eyes, which was more emotion than Dean had shown in weeks, the incident with the whiskey long behind them. Sam bodily turned to look at his brother.

He saw a tear leak out from one of his hands, and Sam's body filled with adrenaline. Dean hadn't so much as coughed since they rescued him weeks ago (unless blackout drunk), and if Dean was finally cracking open just a little, he wasn't going to screw it up.

"Hey, Dean, what's wrong?" He asked, as gently and softly as he could. He held his hand out and left it there, asking for Dean's permission to hold him. Dean hadn't let them before, had shirked them off at every turn, but he thought this time was different.

Dean brought his head up from his hands and looked at Sam, tears tracking down his face. Dean was still as inscrutable as ever, so Sam moved his hand ever so slowly towards Dean's shoulder.

The moment his hand touched down, Dean threw his head into his hands again and began crying in earnest. Sam's stomach dropped to his feet.

"Hey, hey, Dean, what's wrong? Talk to me," he said, concern lacing his voice. Whatever was going on with his brother, he wanted to make it better. Dean hadn't done anything but eat and have nightmares since he got home, and now he was suddenly sobbing. Sam wanted to help Dean so badly it hurt.

Dean pitched forward a little more, and grabbed the couch for support, his other arm wrapping around his middle. His eyes were red-rimmed, and he was struggling to breathe evenly from his anxiety. Dean grabbed his stomach and looked up at Sam for the first time with clear, expressive eyes.

 _It hurts, Sammy, it hurts._

"Dean, are you okay?" Sam asked, as Bobby came around and sat on the other side of Dean, offering him support. It only served to make Dean cry more, but they were glad to see Dean finally beginning to let a tiny little bit of what he was feeling go. He began to suck in air frantically, turning to face both of them, Sam and Bobby hanging on Dean's every movement.

Dean opened his mouth, and Sam's heart leapt into his throat. Sam longed to hear Dean's voice again. He remembered Dean saying his name so slowly, and it broke his heart to think about.

But nothing came out. Dean seemed to struggle, and then clamped his mouth down, the blank look washing over his face again. _Please speak_ , Sam thought desperately. _It's okay, we're here for you._

"You can speak, it's all right," Bobby said encouragingly. Dean's mouth set in a line, and pitched forward violently, bringing his arms up to his head, pulling at his own hair, dragging his hands down over his face. The tears had started again, running down Dean's face.

The thought struck him again. "Dean, are you _able_ to speak?" Sam asked tentatively, fearing the worst.

Dean turned to Sam more quickly than a wild animal, his eyes round with fear, lines set in his face. Before Sam could take a breath, Dean was already coiling up and rising from the couch to flee.

"Dean, it's okay!" Sammy called out, stopping Dean in the middle of the living room. "Dean, wait, it's okay," he did his best to soothe. "We'll figure this out," Sam said, trying to calm his brother down. _Oh Dean, this isn't your fault,_ Sam thought brokenly. _But you wouldn't listen if I said so._

Sam did his best to be open and encouraging, coaxing his brother back into the room. Dean was standing with his body facing the door, breathing still unsteady and frightened. He hesitated on the balls of his feet.

"I'm not upset with you, Dean." Sam said quietly. He said the words that the old Dean would never consent to hearing. "We love you, and we'll figure this out." Sammy was talking about more than just Dean's voice, and hoped he would pick up on that.

Dean's eyes widened, still staring at the floor, and yet another tear escaped from his eyes, several more chasing them. Dean's hands clenched, and his breathing became more labored. Dean's eyebrows pinched together, a look of consternation on his face. He looked upset, hounded, and yet everything in the room was perfectly still.

Sam realized; Dean was confused. All Dean knew for forty years was pain and suffering and torment, probably didn't know how to handle it _not_ happening.

He hung there in the middle of the room, and Bobby opted to fill the silence.

"You said Sammy's name when you got out, so you do know how to talk," Bobby mused, leaving Dean in the middle of the room to calm down. "I think it's just a part of you adjusting to being free. We shouldn't rush it." He smiled encouragingly. "It'll come in it's own time."

Dean's face seemed to relax, and he unwound slightly in the doorframe. His shoulders dropped slightly from their hunched position. It turned to blankness as per usual as he trudged to the couch.

Bobby got up and went over to his desk, pulled a thick book from the shelf entitled "A Soldier's Field Guide to PTSD," and began looking for a specific chapter.

"Every… one of us, gets it eventually," Bobby said by way of explanation for why he had such a book on hand, careful not to trigger a flashback. Sam couldn't disagree; all hunters had their fair share of less than positive experiences.

He read through the book a little. "This is useless," Bobby said. "Their genius idea to overcome the trauma by talking about it, which…" Bobby trailed off, gesturing to Dean. He leaned back, sighing. "They don't say anything about not talking." Bobby reached over for Sam's laptop.

The thought struck Sam as amusing, and he laughed. "A silent Dean, imagine that." He could remember car rides praying for that very thing. Sam suspected that Bobby intentionally avoided the word mute, so Dean wouldn't feel like an invalid.

"What I woulda given to shut you up just two years ago," Bobby said, joking as well.

Dean sat there, observing them, but he hadn't got up or attempted to run away. Just being in the same room with them was an accomplishment for him, and Sam and Bobby weren't going to look this gift horse in the mouth.

 **Dean Winchester**

"Dean, are you able to speak?" Sammy asked, his eyes turning sad. Dean looked up at Sammy, face blank. _Give nothing away_. "Or do you just not want to?"

Dean looked down at his hands. He thought he could speak, if he absolutely had to. Could he?

He remembered how difficult it had been to pronounce Sammy's name when he first got topside. Forcing air through his lungs and making everything coordinate correctly was an art he'd forgotten the hang of after so long.

The real issue is that Dean didn't want to speak of it. The idea of it made his mind run in circles, playing back warnings from what would happen if he spoke and they didn't like what he said. They never liked what he said.

"It doesn't matter what you do, I won't break" Dean spat on the floor.

"I don't like it when you talk back, Dean." Allistair stopped what he was doing, grabbed Dean's tongue, and cut it clean off. Dean's mouth filled with blood and he began to choke on it. He then lodged the knife in Dean's neck, just missing his throat so that the blood would stay pooling in Dean's airway.

"You will, though," Allistair purred. "Everyone does. Everyone picks up the knife eventually." Allistair drug his tool of choice that day, a pizza cutter, along the sides of Dean's body, ripping his skin into little strips.

Dean breathed in and out, careful to give nothing to the demon who stood before him. "It's no use, Dean," he said, reading Dean's mind. "Everyone screams eventually, too."

Allistair pressed in deep in Dean's hip, and he felt the blade cut through the bone. Dean tore into his own hands and drew blood from his palms, but Allistair was not rewarded with a scream.

After enough time, Dean had nothing left to say.

"I highly doubt the managers of hell wanted him talking," Bobby said as he walked in the room. He turned his eyes to Dean, pride on his face. "You were probably a pain in the ass when you did."

 _See, you shouldn't be talking, they don't like it_. Dean knew that unbidden thought was wrong. Bobby's statement filled him with happiness - Bobby was proud of him for not giving in.

Dean looked around at the two men in the room. Sammy and he were sitting on the couch, and Bobby was behind his desk. These men were his family, he knew that now. They were never going to hurt him. They loved him, and they would do anything for him. Sammy saved him.

 _They weren't going to hurt him._

Dean smiled, the first real smile that he'd had since getting out of hell weeks ago. A warmth he didn't know he'd missed filled his chest, reaching all the way up to his eyes. He rubbed his face, trying weakly to hide it from Sammy and Bobby. Dean knew he would have never broken down in front of these two before, but he didn't care. He finally felt safe.

Two more tears chased the first one, and Dean realized his attempts to hide it were in vain when Sammy said "Hey, Dean, what's wrong?" Dean looked up, and Sammy's hand was reaching out to hold him, waiting for permission. Dean looked at the oncoming touch, and finally felt strong enough to try. He didn't stop Sammy as he came closer, and held Dean's shoulder.

The moment he felt the warmth of another human, Dean realized the attempt to keep himself together was also in vain. A sob escaped him, and he buried his face in his hands. At the same time, warmth flowed through his heart and panic coiled in his gut. _Don't hurt me, don't hurt me…_

"Hey, hey, Dean, what's wrong? Talk to me," Sammy said, concern lacing his voice. Dean looked over, and saw Sammy there, hand on his shoulder, his eyes nothing but concerned. Sammy was here to help, and he could finally let himself believe it now. He took deep breaths, trying to release the tension in his belly. One of his hands grasped at his stomach, in a weak attempt to communicate what he was feeling, and his other arm reached out to steady himself against the couch.

The part of Dean that would have previously threw up at the idea of crying in front of Sam, or crying in general, was notoriously silent. After forty years of continuous torture more horrible than is possible on earth, a man gets a year to recover, and even the macho part of Dean from his twenties knew that.

Dean fought to keep the smile off his face, and he was sure that he looked like a lunatic as he sat sobbing from relief on Bobby's couch. He wasn't sure he'd cried like this since he brought Sammy back from death with the deal, 42 years ago.

"Dean, are you okay?" Sammy asked, more concerned this time, seeing Dean's shift in position. Neither he or Bobby could tell that Dean was smiling with relief. He felt a hand touch his arm as Bobby sat down on the other side of him, and another sob forced it's way out of Dean. The coils of panic reached further up his body. He sucked in air, trying to get control of himself.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the words got tangled in his throat, which was felt like it was tearing from the emotion. It hung there, Dean trying to articulate his thoughts, but he snapped his mouth shut in vain as the panic reached up his chest and into his neck. The relief and fright were too much for Dean, writhing inside of him and making him want to vomit.

"You can speak, it's all right," Bobby said encouragingly. Dean wanted to, but the words got tangled. He wanted to make them happy, to let them know what he was thinking or feeling; but he was too used to being punished for even communicating. His own body was stopping him from acting out, his panic reaching up like a tendril to strangle him, render him mute.

Dean leaned over, no longer crying but sucking in air, curling his arms in around his stomach trying to stop the waves of emotion rolling over him. He wanted to tell them he was happy, tell them he finally knew they weren't going to hurt him, and that would make them happy. Why couldn't he?

"Dean, are you able to speak?" Sammy asked, eyes full of concern as Dean turned to look at him. Dean's eyes widened in fear, and his muscles tensed in his body.

 _Please don't be mad._

 _I'm sorry, I tried, I promise._

Dean's breath stilled as he coiled up, his body raising, already halfway across the room before he could stop himself, his voice ringing in his own head, reverberating, increasing in volume.

"Dean, it's okay!" Sammy called out. "Dean, wait, it's okay," he soothed. "We'll figure this out." Sammy smiled encouragingly.

Dean stood there, body turned towards the door, but his eyes fixed on Sammy, his breath hitched and uneven. He wanted to believe Sammy, but everything in his body wanted to run, to escape punishment before it came.

"I'm not upset with you, Dean." Sam said quietly. He said the words that the old Dean would never consent to hearing. "We love you, and we'll figure this out."

 _We love you_

 _We'll figure it out_

Dean hung onto those words like a lifeline, and didn't notice the tears that poured again down his face. His hands clenched without his noticing, the emotions stampeding through his body.

He wanted to be better, he really did. But sometimes he forgot this was family, and that his family loved him. Sometimes he forgot he wasn't going to be punished for being exactly the right way. Most of the times he forgot he was even free, waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under him.

"You said Sammy's name when you got out, so you do know how to talk," Bobby mused after a few minutes, leaving Dean in the middle of the room to calm down. "I think it's just a part of you adjusting to being free. We shouldn't rush it." He smiled encouragingly. "It'll come in it's own time."

Dean smiled with relief. _It'll come in it's own time_. Nothing hanging on him, his fuck-ups, or his failures.

 _You're a failure, boy, you know._

Dean's shoulders sagged with the weight of what he heard echoing in his mind as he walked back to the couch. Bobby got up and went over to his desk, pulled a thick book from the shelf entitled "A Soldier's Field Guide to PTSD," and began looking for a specific chapter.

"Every… one of us, gets it eventually," Bobby said gruffly, careful not to trigger a flashback. Dean always appreciated the effort.

He read through the book a little. "This is useless," Bobby said. "Their genius idea to overcome the trauma by talking about it, which…" Bobby trailed off, gesturing to Dean. He leaned back, sighing. "They don't say anything about not talking." Bobby reached over for Sam's laptop.

Because Dean was mute now. The sentence seemed funny in his own ears. It must have to Sammy too, because he laughed. "A silent Dean, imagine that," he said, smiling.

"What I woulda given to shut you up just two years ago," Bobby said, smiling as well.

Two years ago. Dean could barely remember 43 years ago; when Sammy and Dean were undefiled with demon deals, down there, or anything else. It was all so hazy, coming back to him in tiny bits and pieces; coming back without him noticing, fleeting memories returning when reminded of them.

 **Dean Winchester**

Bobby walked in the library and promptly sat down at his desk, flipping open papers and continuing to translate whatever old tome he had been working on.

The normality of the action gave Dean pause. They had been treating him like glass since he returned, and for good reason; the smallest things set Dean on edge, wandering around the Singer residence trapped in shell-shock. He took advantage of the moment, studying his stand-in father.

The amount of liquor at his house had increased dramatically from Dean's recollection, half-open and empty bottles of vodka littering the work area. It was too much for Bobby to have emptied himself, and was suddenly assaulted by the image of Bobby and Sam getting drunk together over Dean's absence. He felt sick.

He must have been staring, because Bobby roughly said "Whaddya want?"

Dean's eyebrows raised in shock.

"Figured you didn't appreciate us treating you like glass all the time now that you're up and about," Bobby said lightly. "You have enough of that to be getting on with your dramatic brother, anyways." His eyes never left his work.

 _Yes, he quite had_ , thought Dean. He was glad Bobby noticed. He picked up a liquor bottle, and another, making a big show of doing the recycling.

"It's been tough," Bobby said quietly, as Dean left the room to put the bottles out. Dean felt the urge to scoff, getting angry. Bobby was telling _Dean_ that, when he was the one who climbed out of his grave?

 **Sam Winchester**

Sam wanted to talk to Dean, wanted to ask him, but Bobby seemed to think that they should be treating him like a wounded animal. Sam agreed, at first, but now that Dean seemed comfortable with being downstairs around them, Sam wanted to try and talk to him.

However, Dean didn't talk back. Dean didn't even nod or shake his head. Only his eyes gave any indication of what he was feeling which, once so expressive, now wasn't much.

This is why one day, when Dean was sitting on the couch while Bobby was reading, Sam decided to try and talk to Dean.

"Hey," Sam said, sitting down on the couch next to his brother, holding his whiskey. Dean didn't look up. "I wanted to talk to you." Dean still didn't look up, but Sam saw him begin to twist his fingers. Bobby looked up out of the corner of his eye as well.

"Don't worry, Dean, it's nothing serious," he said, and he saw Dean's hands relax. "I just wanted to see if you could start communicating with us… don't worry, you don't have to talk," Sam said hurriedly as Dean's eyes whipped around to meet his. "Just nodding yes or no, that sort of thing." Dean swallowed nervously, and went back to contemplating his hands. "Could you do that for us? We promise not to annoy the shit out of you with questions," Sam finished, smiling.

Dean set his mouth in a straight line.

Dean nodded, very slightly, but enough.

"Thank you Dean," Sam said, sighing. Bobby smiled, one to match the smile on Sam's face. "You have no idea how good that makes us feel."

Neither of the men saw the small smile that grew on Dean's face as well.

 **Dean Winchesterr**

Dean liked spending time downstairs with Bobby and Sammy. They didn't bother him with questions, and were comfortable just letting him sit still in the same room they were in, listening to their conversation.

What they said usually brought back memories, small moments of time rushing into Dean's mind. He enjoyed remembering his life, enjoyed remembering things about Bobby or Sammy that they shared.

Dean appreciated that when he slipped away from them, got lost, they didn't try and drag him back to reality. They were patient, and told Dean he was safe. He would never get tired of hearing Sammy say he was safe.

Dean still didn't talk, and fear still constricted him at the thought. He didn't need to talk much, anyways; they always knew what food he liked, and he was happy just to listen to their conversations about life.

Dean was doing this one day, sitting on the couch thinking while Bobby read, when Sammy came over to sit down next to him.

"Hey," Sammy said, but Dean didn't look up. He didn't acknowledge either of the men more than he had to, instinct still at work in his body.

 _Don't give them anything_. His own voice rang in his head, an automatic habit.

"I wanted to talk to you," Sammy said seriously.

 _Did I do something wrong?_ The panicked thought struck Dean, unbidden, and he felt anger coil in his chest at the thought. He hated that even the slightest thing made him afraid.

"Don't worry, Dean, it's nothing serious," he assured Dean. Dean uncoiled his hands, trusting Sammy's word.

"I just wanted to see if you could start communicating with us…" Sammy began. Did they want him to start talking again?

He couldn't do that, not right now. His eyes turned to meet Sammy's.

 _Please don't ask it of me_ , he thought to himself pleadingly.

"Don't worry, you don't have to talk," Sammy assured him again, and Dean's insides uncoiled. "Just nodding yes or no, that sort of thing."

Dean swallowed nervously, and went back to contemplating his hands. He didn't really want to start doing that, but he saw why Sammy would ask. Dean couldn't go through the rest of his life expecting Sammy to always be there, interpreting what he thought.

"Could you do that for us? We promise not to annoy the shit out of you with questions," Sammy finished, smiling.

That's right. They would have a lot of questions, questions he didn't want to answer.

Dean set his mouth in a grim, straight line as anxiety again pooled in his stomach. He didn't have to answer their questions, he knew they wouldn't push if he didn't answer.

He nodded, taking great care with the motion.

"Thank you Dean," Sam said, sighing. Bobby smiled, one to match the smile on Sam's face. "You have no idea how good that makes us feel."

Dean's heart grew warm, and he dipped his head down and smiled. He'd do anything to see his family happy.

 **Dean Winchester**

"Dean, want breakfast?" Bobby called from the kitchen. "Thinking about making omelets or something."

Dean looked up at Bobby, memories of hell flashing through his mind.

The flap of flayed skin, hot and bloody coming off of his body.

It was as if he was seeing Bobby through a long tunnel, his voice muffled and distant. Instead of breakfast, Dean smelled his own boiling flesh. He felt the burning fire crawl up and down his arms.

"You told us you'd start answering questions," Sam called lightheartedly from the other room. Dean knew what he was doing, trying to encourage him gently.

Dean looked back at Bobby, and shook his head no, the entire world shaking with the movement. His stomach lurched uncomfortably, and nausea made him pitch forward slightly.

A knife being dragged along under his skin, exposing his muscles, the hot air in the pit burning him.

"You sure?" Bobby asked, without giving Dean a chance to answer. "All right then. Sam?"

"Sure, breakfast sounds nice," Sam said. He was still tired; he had been up all night helping Dean.

 _I don't remember ever doing anything to deserve that much help_ , Dean thought desperately. All he could remember was Allistair.

"You know," Allistair said contemplatively, "I think you deserve this. Oh, I know you sacrificed yourself for your brother, how noble, but you've gotten a lot of people killed," he continued amicably while Dean's skin and blood dripped onto the stone floor, sizzling on contact.

Dean could barely see the house, felt like he was drowning in his own body. His blood was pounding in his own ears and he felt like he wasn't in his body anymore, felt like he was just a passenger.

Dean felt a burning in his veins, like corrosive acid, washing away his insides. He was empty and cold in his chest, the darkness eating away his heart.

He didn't want to be in this house anymore. He stood up abruptly, heading for the door. The cool air hit him instantly, pulling him out of his pounding head and into the nice sensations outside.

He walked out into the sunlight, and appreciated how warm it was on his skin. The air was nice and cool by contrast, and Dean thought that laying in the grass would have been extremely nice. He looked to the field.

His grave, torn up and covered with dirt, stood untouched on the other end.

Being trapped, unable to move, the air dusty and stale as he tried to catch his breath

His hand, breaking the box as dirt and soil rushed into him.

Dean gasped, the memories and claustrophobia rushing over him, making his hands shake. This wasn't the first time he'd been trapped in a space too small. He was hyperventilating, heart pounding behind his ribcage, lungs feeling like there were bands around them and he couldn't catch his breath -

He heard the grass move, and turned around to see Sammy standing right behind him.

He stood stock still; he didn't want Sammy to see him this way. He cleared his face and it went blank.

"Hey Dean, just wanted to know where you were going," Sammy said. Dean looked over to the scrapyard full of cars, anywhere but the torn land in the back.

"Going to see the Impala?" Sammy said. Dean let him believe whatever it was he said. "All right, just come get us if you need anything," he said as he slowly walked back inside.

Dean was glad to be left alone, and ambled over to the scrapyard. He didn't know what he was looking for, but he knew he'd know it when he saw it.

There were so many broken down cars in this lot. He looked from one to another, and found that he knew what was wrong with all of them. _This one needs a new engine block, gonna cost a ton_ , he thought as he walked by an orange truck. _And this just needs a new wheel and is good to go_ , he thought of an F150 near the front.

He saw the black Impala sitting around front of Bobby's house, and jogged over to it. Memories about it rushed over him. He was so happy to see it was clean, his face reflecting off of the hood perfectly. He slid into the front seat and felt the leather with his hands.

His eyes fell on an iPod stand that had been installed in the head unit of the car, and annoyance pooled in his chest.

 _Sammy put an iPod jack in my baby…_ He thought indignantly, grabbing the iPod and ripping it out.

Dean marched back in through the front door, forgetting for just a moment his fear and slammed the iPod down in front of Sammy. He opened his mouth to let out a string of frustrated words out of habit, but instead fear reached up his body and stilled his voice.

Dean snapped his mouth shut and his frustration seeped away, turning to anger in his chest. Anger with himself, for being _fucking_ mute and useless.

Sammy didn't say anything for a moment. "I was wondering when you'd find that," he said with guilt.

Dean stalked out of the house again, finding he didn't care about the iPod jack. All of his anger shifted onto himself for being unable to talk, unable to communicate, unable to think without there dogging his every thought. He paced around the scrapyard, dwelling on his predicament.

Dean saw the way Bobby and Sammy looked at each other when they thought Dean couldn't see; the way despair filled their eyes at his condition. He knew he was broken, he was starting to remember what it was like to not be broken.

Dean remembered he loved talking, loved talking about women and popular movies and hunting. He loved talking about cars with Bobby, loved helping him in the scrapyard earning a legitimate living. Bobby worked out here by himself now, Sammy holding down the house and Dean.

Dean may have been too afraid to talk but out here, alone, he knew he could work on cars, with no one to hurt him or tear at him or expect something from him. He went over to Bobby's garage and opened it up, and happily found no cars jacked up on his lift. He put on his mechanics suit and tools, and went to go put a new wheel on the F150. He saw the good wheel lying right next to it, and changing the wheel and tire would only take a little while.

 **Dean Winchester**

Dean wandered in after dark, cold and with grease smudged on his face. He was extremely satisfied with himself, and didn't have any flashbacks while he was changing the wheel. He did forget during parts how to actually do it, but he didn't need to admit that to anyone.

"Were you working on cars?" Sammy asked incredulously as Dean walked inside. Dean nodded, not hiding the motion anymore, and went upstairs to go get a shower.

 **Sam Winchester**

"Dean, want breakfast?" Bobby called from the kitchen. "Thinking about making omelettes or something."

Dean looked up at Bobby, but gave no answer. He seemed to be looking at something past Bobby, the thousand-yard stare.

"You told us you'd start answering questions," Sam said lightheartedly, not wanting to pressure Dean into doing something he didn't want.

Dean glanced over at Sam, then looked back to Bobby as he shook his head no, ever so slightly. Dean's eyes lost their focus, and Sam's heart broke again, doing so all too often these days.

"You sure?" Bobby asked rhetorically. "All right then. Sam?"

"Sure, breakfast sounds nice," Sam said.

Last night's nightmare had been particularly awful, and Sam was up most of the night making sure Dean got an okay night's sleep. He didn't regret a thing, but he did feel bleary-eyed that morning.

Bobby made breakfast, and the two of them ate at the table while Dean continued staring past the wall from his position on the library couch.

"He's not with us, is he," Sam said while he was eating. "Should we try and get his attention?"

Before they could do anything, Dean stood up abruptly and walked out the back door.

"Dean?" Sam called, but of course received no response. He glanced over at Bobby, and followed Dean outside.

He found Dean in the throes of a panic attack, hands on his knees as he fought to catch his breath. His eyes were on the torn up earth he climbed out of, and Sam cursed that they hadn't cleaned that up yet. That was something they absolutely should have been more on top of.

Sam stood there, not wanting to frighten Dean further, and Dean calmed down as he turned and saw Sam. Dean went completely rigid, face blank.

"Hey Dean, just wanted to know where you were going," Sam said, feigning ignorance. Dean looked over to the scrapyard full of cars, and his gaze lingered there.

"Going to see the Impala?" Sam guessed. Dean gave no response. "All right, just come get us if you need anything," he said as he slowly walked back inside. Sam was sad Dean hadn't opened up since the other day, but he knew he couldn't rush this. It just… sucked, to see his brother in so much pain.

 **Sam Winchester**

"This has gotta be a good sign," Sam insisted as Dean went upstairs. "It's the first time he didn't spend hours staring at the wall." They heard the shower turn on and Sam said "He's even getting a shower and changing now!"

"I want to go see what he did," Bobby said, getting up from his desk. He walked outside, and Sam followed him to the garage.

"It took him this long to put on a new wheel?" Bobby asked incredulously, inspecting the work done.

"I'm not inclined to judge at this point," Sam said. "Like you've been saying, the fact that he remembers anything, let alone how to install an F150 wheel, is a miracle."

Bobby inspected Dean's work, fiddling with the car still on the riser. "His work looks good, even if it's slow," Bobby said, appraising. "This is a good sign, if he's remembering insignificant things like car repair."

"Car repair isn't insignificant to Dean," Sam said, smiling as well. Relief was flowing through his veins. Dean really was going to get better.


	5. Chapter 5: Rage

**Sam Winchester**

Dean was in the living room, sitting unoccupied as he often did, when Sam decided to sit next to him and discuss something that was on his mind.

"Dean," Sam asked as he sit down next to him. "About you talking… I was thinking we could visit Missouri, maybe she can help you get better," Sam said.

Dean turned blankly to his brother. That damn emptiness on his face, _again_.

"Give it a chance," Sam pleaded, as if he could hear Dean's thoughts. "What if she can really help?"

Dean shook his head no again, not otherwise moving from his position on the couch.

"What -" Sam said, but was cut off by Dean abruptly getting up and going upstairs. He heard the bedroom door slam shut.

Sam sighed, and put his head in his hands. He rubbed his face, and felt much much too tired for this.

"You knew he ain't gonna let you do anything involving his head," Bobby said, having heard the tail end of the one-sided conversation.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Sam said waving Bobby off. "Just… why won't he let us help him?"

"You know why, son," Bobby said, mouth turning downward.

"If it were me -" Sam began,

"- You wouldn't want Dean in your head." Bobby finished over Sam.

"It's just his hero complex!" Sam burst out, but then lowered his voice. "I'm sure of it. I can't let Missouri see, or wee Sammy see, or Bobby see, or anyone see, because I'm Dean Winchester," Sam mocked quietly.

"Don't matter what it is, it is." Bobby insisted firmly. "We need to respect that." Bobby tried to take a tone that said this conversation was over.

Sam's face turned sour as he reached for his beer.

 **Dean Winchester**

"Dean," Sammy asked as he sit down next to him. "About you talking… I was thinking we could visit Missouri, maybe she can help you get better," Sammy said.

Dean incredulously turned to his brother. No, no _way_ they were going to see a psychic. The thought sent shivers down his spine.

First off, Dean didn't want anyone in his head, especially after what he'd been through. He didn't want to see people's reactions to his personal shit. Dean didn't like chick-flick moments _before_ , and traumatic torture doesn't do much for encouraging sharing and caring.

The thought of seeing someone react to what was in his head curdled his stomach, and he wanted to bend over and be sick.

Secondly, what he went through was so different and horrible compared to anything else in the human experience, and Dean was acutely aware. It shouldn't even be a human experience. People weren't meant to come back from this, there was no framework for dealing with it. They wouldn't find their answer in any of the PTSD websites Sam had been scouring over the past weeks.

Thirdly, he was worried for Missouri's health. If Missouri got anywhere near him, she'd feel what he's feeling, and he wouldn't wish that upon anyone. Would Missouri even be able to handle it? Dean certainly wasn't, and Dean figured his own coping abilities were well above Missouri's. He wouldn't put her through it, he simply wouldn't.

The ache in Dean's heart further intensified.

"Give it a chance," Sammy pleaded to Dean's stony silence. "What if she can really help?"

Dean shook his head no again, not otherwise moving from his position on the couch. The slim-to-none chance Missouri could help, put against all the damage he might do her? In Dean's mind, it wasn't even a question.

"What -" Sammy started, but Dean was tired, so tired. Dean wasn't going to listen to him discuss idea after idea Sammy had for traipsing around Dean's head, because he wasn't going to agree to it, so he got up and went to their room.

Dean couldn't crush the thought that he wished Sammy could, though. He felt cold and empty inside his chest, he wanted Sammy and Bobby to see what he was going through. He wanted them to come _help him._

Dean wasn't even sure what Sammy's whole goal was, anyway. What, get into Dean's head and do battle with some sort of imaginary monster, and then Dean would wake up less afraid and able to talk again? Dean was no fool, he knew it wouldn't be that easy. This was not a supernatural problem, there was no monster to defeat.

Dean knew it was partially motivated by curiosity on his brother's part. He wanted to understand what happened to his big brother, so that he could help him. He wished Sammy would just give up the crusade to _know_ , because Dean wasn't going to budge on this issue. He wasn't going to expose Sammy to that.

 _Self-absorbed a little bit, aren't you_ , he heard his own critical voice say. Cold hatred settled into his chest as he realized, yes, he was a self-absorbed piece of shit these days. But he didn't know what else he could do.

 **Dean Winchester**

Sam and Dean were sitting on the couch, casually watching Dr Sexy. It was his favorite TV show, although Dean would never admit it, and he appreciated the endless hours Sam spent watching it with him when he knew Sam had no particular love of the show.

Dean was unwinding considerably around his family, no longer spending all of his time shut in his room. He listened to Sam and Bobby talk about anything; what was on the news, how other hunters were doing, so on and so forth. Since he had spent so much time downstairs, he had gotten used to them chatter about hunting. He could keep the emotions from reaching up his chest if they didn't talk about Sam or Dean personally hunting, which they never did.

Since he'd spent so much time downstairs, his fear and anxiety was slowly turning to frustration, his daily fear channeling into anger. He hated how he was perfectly able and yet invalid; each unexpected sound from in the house throwing him into a hell highlights reel. He was suspicious of dark corners, and his fear of Sam and Bobby quickly changed into a fear of being in a room alone.

He was also frustrated with Bobby and Sam's secret conversations. Bobby would give Sam a nod, and they'd walk outside or upstairs or wherever Dean wasn't to have a conversation about him. At first, Dean had been glad that they didn't talk about downstairs around him, but as time went on he began to be more and more frustrated they were hiding things from him. They were talking about him, his life, and how he got out. Dean felt just a little entitled to that information, his proverbial feathers rustled.

Dean knew they weren't getting anywhere with their research, and that they had no more information than they started with when he climbed out of his grave months ago. Dean was the only man who had ever escaped hell, he knew, because downstairs he was always reminded. Nobody escapes. He knew that they had more questions; they wanted to know what actually happened in hell.

Dean scowled, but he could hardly blame them. He too was curious about what happened in the time he was gone, but at least Dean knew what earth was generally like. It was motivated out of concern; if they knew what happened, they could help him. But they couldn't understand, couldn't even begin to grasp the enormity of what happened to him.

Neither man had any idea of the anger brewing in Dean.

So, when Bobby walked into the room with Sam and Dean and nodded at the former, Dean got up as well, defiance in his gaze. They weren't going to hide things from him anymore.

Sam looked cautiously at Dean, and said "Are you sure you want to?" He looked down and said "We figured, you know, you wouldn't wanna… Think about it."

It's true, Dean didn't want to think about it, but he never would, and Dean would be damned if he was going to let that stop him from living his life. His old life.

"Stubborn boy," Bobby said, when Dean refused to move.

"You are a stubborn boy," Allistair said smoothly, tracing lines on Dean's face with the blade. "Lets see if we can change that," dragging the blade along his face, deeper and deeper, digging into his jaw –

Dean flinched, badly, and cursed himself for it. _Fucking pathetic_.

"We might as well stay here then," Bobby said, carefully noticing Dean's reaction. He walked over to his desk.

"Well, I haven't been able to find anything about anything," Bobby said bluntly. "How you get in, besides death, how you get out, what can get you out, what magic can get people in or out, it's all a big nothing. Until Girl, Interrupted here is speaking again, we've also got nothing to work with." Bobby and Sam looked at Dean, as if they both expected him to burst out into speech at that moment.

Even if Dean could, it would be irrelevant, since he had nothing to say. He knew now how exactly a demon climbed out of hell, but that wasn't the way Dean came, and it was, for now, useless information.

"We know how a demon can get out of hell," Sam said. Dean's insides lurched at hearing the noun out loud.

"Yeah. We know that they climb out, that it takes forever, and that it's difficult as shit, and that's it." Bobby said uselessly. "You come that way?" he asked rhetorically.

Dean imperceptibly shook his head. Not a chance.

"Well, we got squat," Sam said. "Our only lead is you, Dean, and we haven't felt it's urgent enough to harass you about it until you were better."

More anger coiled in Dean's stomach. He hated that they had to make that kind of consideration for him. He was pissed off about how slowly he was recovering, pissed off about all the nightmares, and pissed off he couldn't open his mouth to speak without having a fucking episode. He was pissed off he wanted to hurt himself, he was pissed off he wasn't… allowed to, or whatever, and he was pissed off that he was disappointing Sammy and Bobby by wanting to.

Idily, Dean thought he might like to break something right about now.

"I was thinking," Bobby said cautiously, looking at Dean. Dean _hated_ that he had to be cautious. "That the only way we're going to get any real information is if we ask someone who would know. Rather, something."

Dean understood why Bobby had been reluctant to let Dean in on the conversation. A demon, near Dean? The very thought made him want to empty his stomach. Dean's hands started to shake, and he pounded the arm of the chair he was sitting in in frustration. Why couldn't he just be okay? He wanted to be well enough to be near demons, to be hunting again - he wanted to be well enough to _just speak_.

"Believe me, we can understand the sentiment," Sam said, clearly thinking Dean's frustration was about letting a demon in the house, "but we're never going to get answers otherwise." Dean knew they could.

If he shared what he remembered about being rescued, they'd figure out what it was that saved him, he was sure. But he couldn't share because he couldn't _speak_.

Dean wasn't going to let them interrogate demons in this house, not when Dean knew he had the answers anyways. If only he could find the balls to tell them!

Dean launched himself up off the couch and stalked out of the house into the scrapyard, wanting the anger flaring in his chest to loosen. He felt constricted, suffocated by it's weight.

"Dean!" Sam called, following behind him. "We won't do it if you don't want," Sam said. Dean turned and pounded a car in frustration, leaving a dent in the scrap metal and causing his hand to flare in pain - but Dean was far too angry to wind up in a panic from the pain. His anger fueled him, and Dean worried that he might lash out at Sam if he pressed the issue, so Dean tried to walk further into the yard, away from Sam.

"What's gotten into you," Sam exclaimed, frustrated, following him. Dean turned on his heel to look at his brother, and he knew he looked livid. *What kind of a question was that.*

He could feel his eyes open wide, and could feel his shoulders square with anger, could feel himself shake from weeks of pent-up emotion. He felt himself grind his teeth, and was powerless to stop the anger thundering through his body.

Sam stepped forward, and Dean involuntarily drew his arm back in defense. Sam threw his hands up pleadingly and backed up, and Dean instead put his hand through the glass window next to him, shards of tempered glass flying everywhere, blood dripping from Dean's hand. It stung, and the sharp pain cascaded through Dean's hand as he pinched his eyes shut momentarily.

Dean dimly was aware that he was losing his shit.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked, true concern flashing in his eyes.

The question was so meaningless, so inane, so _stupid_ that all of the anger galloping through Dean's chest poured out into the rest of his body, swallowing up everything else in its path.

"NO!" Dean roared, feeling the rage pour out over his fear, swallowing it up whole.

Dean opened his mouth to say more, but the words all jumbled up in his throat and Dean made a catching noise. Anger again struck his heart, and Dean hit the car next to him yet again in anger when he found himself unable to say more. He was shaking violently, emotional and unpredictable, eyes again closed momentarily and brought his shaky hand up as he felt how frustrated he was.

Dean opened his eyes again to see Sam standing there, for all the world looking like it had ended. His eyes were wide open, along with his mouth hanging slack. Bobby was standing 'round the bend, watching the scene from 10 or 15 feet away. _He probably came running when he heard me_ , Dean thought dimly.

He scowled, not wanting to see their expectant faces. The desire to talk drained from him, filled instead with a desire to destroy anything in his path. He turned to face away from them, eyes again closed and face pulled as in pain. He threw his bloody arm up and pointed away from himself, his green jacket lifting up around his shoulders, telling them to get lost.

"No," he heard Sam say behind him. "Not this time."

Dean spun around again, eyes flown open in rage, verifying what he had just heard. _What had Sam just said to him?_

"You heard me," Sam said, reading his face.

"Sam," Bobby said, warning him with his tone as he walked closer.

Sam turned to Bobby. "No, Bobby," he turned back to Dean.

"Hit me if you'd like - " Sam started, and was cut off by Dean's fist connecting with his jaw, nothing held back.

Bobby stiffened, readying for a fight, but Sam just spit out the blood in his mouth and continued. "You need to deal with what you're feeling, Dean. You can't bottle this up, Dean. Not this."

Dean started shaking, so angry this was all happening. Yet again, here was Sam telling him he had to 'deal with it.'

"WHAT WOULD YOU KNOW?!" Dean roared, backing away from Sam. "EITHER OF YOU!" He said, throwing a hand to point at both of them in turn, expelling all of the air from his lungs. He felt his rage at the whole situation pour out of him, chest heaving with the effort. He was dimly aware of panic fluttering weakly against the weight of all of his anger in his chest.

"THEY -" Dean paused, shaking with frustration. "THEY - " Dean roared in fury, making a noise like a pained animal as he brought down his left hand this time on the car next to him, blood matching the other hand. He thought in the back of his mind he might seriously hurt himself at this rate. Or someone else.

"THERE AREN'T WORDS!" He bellowed, even louder this time. "HOW, EXACTLY, AM I SUPPOSED TO DEAL!?"

"I don't know -" Sam yelled, but was cut off by Dean.

"EXACTLY!" Dean said, throwing his hands in the air. "YOU DON'T KNOW. NONE OF US KNOW!" Dean was pointing at Sam, approaching him aggressively.

Sam stepped forward and Dean drew his arms back for a fight, his mind not caught up enough to control his body. He felt himself tense up, ready to defend himself from anything, even Sammy.

"Sam, be careful!" Bobby said, grabbing his arm to pull him back. "He's not in his right mind."

Dean rounded on Bobby. "I'M NOT SOME KICKED DOG, BOBBY!" He shouted, approaching Bobby with a pointed finger.

"You've not been in your right mind lately and you know it!" Bobby shouted, trying to drive the point home over Dean's considerably louder volume.

The truth of the statement rung hard in Dean's ears, and stopped him dead in his tracks. His whole body stilled and for a brief moment, the scrapyard was completely silent. Dean couldn't even hear wind rustle the branches.

Not right in the head.

 _Insane._

Then Dean's head erupted in a great rushing noise.

"I'VE BEEN TRYING TO FORGET!" Dean roared back, bringing his hands up to his hair, his ears, tears now escaping his eyes freely. His face was still twisted in rage, not acknowledging his tears, his throat tearing from the pain of shouting. The noise was cascading past Dean's ears, loud and demanding. Dean backed up from both of them, holding his own head, shaking.

40 years of hell had driven Dean Winchester insane.

Dean may not have a puffy room or white hospital robes, but he felt every inch of what it meant.

He threw his arm out against the car, feeling his fury still coursing through his veins, the shaking increasing as a desperate grief emptied itself into his chest. Dean felt like he was shattering, pieces dropping to the ground. He felt his tears track down and fall off of his face, and couldn't bring himself to care. He was aware he was making a noise close to shouting.

"It's okay, Dean," Bobby said quietly, suddenly much closer. "We'll figure it out, just like Sammy said."

Dean held his other hand up to stop them from approaching. Dean swallowed more words that he just wanted to bellow out of his lungs, railing against hell and the world. Thunderous murder coursing through his veins, washing over his perpetual fear. "I can't calm down," he ground out between his teeth, his hand out to lean against the car, feeling wetness track down his face. If he could, he'd crush the car in his grasp, sucking in large breaths as if ready to shout again.

"You don't have to," he heard Sam say from far away. "Keep shouting or hitting me if you like. I can take it," Sam's assured voice said.

Dean felt his vision blur, felt his eyes wildly focus and refocus. He heard his breath hitch, felt his shaking turn from fury to fear. "Help me," Dean begged quietly as panic overtook him. Hallucinations of fire played on the edges of his vision, as Dean lost his grip on the here and now. The rushing noise turned into the hollow screams of the damned as they drifted through hell, trapped in their eternal agony. The pain threatened to wash over him, and he felt his knees buckle.

"Stay with us, Dean," Sam said, as if he were all the way down a tunnel, the sound echoing. Dean grasped onto the sound, holding himself still. He could still see the dirt of Bobby's scrapyard, could still feel the cold late fall air, and could still see Sam and Bobby moving towards him.

He felt a hand close in on his arm, and his fear took over, propelling him back into another car, scrambling for purchase. "No, please," he heard himself plead. "Don't hurt me, please," he heard himself yell. Dean watched himself throw his arms up defensively from backed up against the car. Dean felt his eyes slide in and out of focus, felt his pupils dilate wildly.

The panic had taken over him now, moving his limbs and his voice without his consent, constricting his chest painfully. He felt a gaping hole under his ribcage, full of pain and torment, echoing off of itself. A horrible feeling filled his limbs, as if his blood had turned to acid. *What was happening to him?*

"We're losing him, Sam," Dean heard Bobby say from somewhere to his left, the voice sounding far away. Dean flinched and moved away from it.

"Dean, calm down!" Sam ordered Dean somewhere above his vision. "You need to calm down, now."

Dean looked down at his shaking hands, covered in blood and cuts, coming in and out of his vision. How? Too much adrenaline was running through his veins. This was surely hell all over again, he thought as he collapsed to his knees, falling forward onto his hands. His hands and feet began to spasm, sending excruciating pain up his limbs. His vision narrowed, but he did could not pass out.

"Hang on, Dean," he heard Sam say distantly. "Sammy's here. Bobby's here. We've got you."

Dean felt himself choke a sob onto the ground, and then another, unable to control his body's reactions to the massive amounts of hormones in his bloodstream. He saw the wet spots on the dusty dirt his tears made, and felt the water run down his face like it hadn't done since he was a child. The howling screams still filled his ears, the heat and pain of hellfire searing through his skin. Dean knew he was going to slip into a hallucination any second.

"He's going to have a seizure if we don't calm him down," he heard Bobby say from far away. Dean appreciated Bobby's education in medicine, even now.

"We're not knocking him out against his will," Sammy insisted distantly.

"Make it stop," he heard himself plead weakly. He wanted this to end, he wanted to be okay again. Dean felt as if his nerves were on fire, and was sure the rushing, howling noises were closing in on him.

"Bobby, get sedatives!" Sammy said, changing his position instantly as Dean said. Bobby ran back to the house faster than Dean thought possible.

"Oh god no," Dean said, dread pooling as he looked over Sammy's shoulder.

Allistair was standing there, ten feet behind Sammy, twirling some sharp knife with a glimmering smile on his face.

Dean knew Sammy couldn't see him, but pointed at him anyways from his position on the ground, his legs increasing in their seizing. Dean's vision blackened on the edges, and he fought to drag his eyes back to Sammy.

"Sammy, he's right there," Dean whimpered, as he stalked closer. Allistair's pace was fast, he was heading directly for him –

"Sammy!" Dean began to yell, forgetting that Sammy couldn't see him and that he wasn't real – it didn't matter, he was heading right for him with the blade, his vision closing in –

Then his awareness ended abruptly.

 **Sam Winchester**

Sam was sitting on the couch watching Dr Sexy with Dean when Bobby came in and nodded at Sam for a private conversation. Sam got up as usual, but this time Dean stood up as well, refusing to let them leave his presence. Defiance was written all over Dean's face.

Sam had noticed his growing irritation with their secret conversations, and he supposed it was now coming to a head. Sam looked cautiously at Dean, and said "Are you sure you want to?" He looked down and said "We figured, you know, you wouldn't wanna… Think about it."

Dean breathed a shaky breath, but nodded and remained where he was.

"Stubborn boy," Bobby said, when Dean refused to move. Dean flinched hard, and Bobby and Sam took note of the wording, noticing his reaction. "We might as well stay here then," He walked over to his desk.

"Well, I haven't been able to find anything about anything," Bobby said bluntly. "How you get in, besides death, how you get out, what can get you out, what magic can get people in or out, it's all a big nothing. Until mutism here is speaking again, we've also got nothing to work with." Bobby and Sam looked at Dean, as if they both expected him to burst out into speech at that moment.

"We know how a demon can get out of hell," Sam said unhelpfully.

"Yeah. We know that they climb out, that it takes forever, and that it's difficult as hell, and that's it." Bobby stated. He turned to Dean. "You come that way?" Dean shook his head, a look of illness on his face. That way didn't seem pleasant.

"Well, we got squat," Sam said. "Our only lead is you, Dean, and we haven't felt it's urgent enough to harass you about it until you were better." Dean's face turned sour, clearly brooding over his own thoughts.

"I was thinking," Bobby said cautiously, looking at Dean. "That the only way we're going to get any real information is if we ask someone who would know. Rather, something."

Dean's hands started shaking, and then he pounded the arm of the chair in what seemed to be frustration. "Believe me, we can understand the sentiment," Sam said. Of course he wouldn't want a demon in the house, that's why they wanted to hide it. "but we're never going to get answers otherwise." Dean launched himself up off the couch and walked out of the house out the back door, stalking as though angry.

"Dean!" Sam called, sighing, following behind him. "We won't do it if you don't want," Sam said, catching up to Dean in the yard.

Dean turned and pounded a car in frustration, leaving a dent in the scrap metal. He hissed from the pain, and walked away from Sam. He didn't know how to handle Dean's anger, but he knew that this meant Dean was at least beginning to cope with what happened to him. Sam would deal with his anger if that's what it meant.

"What's gotten into you," Sam exclaimed, following him. Dean turned on his heel to look at his brother, and his eyes were flown wide, and he looked livid. His brother squared his shoulders, and Sam hadn't seen Dean this angry… ever. Sam knew how dangerous Dean was, unbalanced from his time in hell, but the reality didn't hit home until right now.

Dean was scaring Sam.

Sam swallowed his fear and stepped forward, slowly reaching out towards Dean. Dean drew back and Sam threw his hands up pleadingly and backed up. *Dean, please, let me help*, Sam thought, annoyed.

Dean instead put his hand through the glass window next to him, shards of tempered glass flying everywhere, blood dripping from Dean's hand. Dean's eyes closed, and his shoulders squared even more. What was making Dean so angry?

"Are you okay?" Sam asked, true concern filling him. This seemed to be about more than giving a demon a rough time.

"NO!" Dean roared, shocking Sam to silence. *Holy shit*, he thought. Sam was glad Dean didn't have a gun on him.

Dean opened his mouth to say more, but instead made a catching noise in his throat and shut his mouth. Dean hit the car next to him again, thoroughly destroying the vehicle and his hand. Dean was shaking powerfully, and Sam had no damn idea what to do.

Sam heard Bobby come around the corner, probably hearing Dean's roar. He looked back briefly and saw him 15 or so feet away, glad for the backup. They had to get through to Dean.

Dean scowled, nursing his injuries. He turned to face away from them, throwing his arm up and pointing away, his army jacket pulling around his shoulders as he told the two men to get lost. Dean may be post-hell and mute, but this was the Dean he'd lived with for 23 years. Sam did what he would do anytime Dean wasn't dealing with something.

"No," Sam said defiantly. "Not this time."

Dean spun around again, eyes flown open in rage. Obviously this was not what he wanted. Dean began creeping towards Sam.

"You heard me," Sam said, reading his face.

"Sam," Bobby said, warning him with his tone as he walked closer. *Be careful*.

Sam turned to Bobby. "No, Bobby," he turned back to Dean.

"Hit me if you'd like - " Sam started, and was cut off by Dean's fist connecting with his jaw, nothing held back.

Bobby stiffened, readying for a fight, but Sam just spit out the blood in his mouth and continued. "You need to deal with what you're feeling, Dean. You can't bottle this up, Dean. Not this." *If you need to hit something or someone, I can take it,* thought Sam. *I won't let this destroy you.*

Dean started shaking, backing up, more angry than Sam had ever seen his brother. It really did scare Sam, but not for his own sake.

"WHAT WOULD YOU KNOW?!" Dean roared, shocking Sam to shit and temporarily dumbfounding him. "EITHER OF YOU!" He said, throwing a hand to point at both of them in turn, expelling all of the air from his lungs. Sam just watched him, drinking in every word Dean said, glad just to hear him speaking.

"THEY -" Dean paused, shaking. "THEY - " Dean roared in fury, making a noise like a pained animal as he brought down his left hand this time on the car next to him, blood matching the other hand. This time, Dean didn't stop to notice the injury, but forged on. Sam's worry for his brother increased exponentially.

"THERE AREN'T WORDS!" He bellowed, even louder this time. "HOW, EXACTLY, AM I SUPPOSED TO DEAL!?"

Sam found his voice just in time to answer that question "I don't know -" Sam yelled, but was cut off by Dean.

"EXACTLY!" Dean said, throwing his hands in the air. "YOU DON'T KNOW. NONE OF US KNOW!" Dean was now pointing at Sam, approaching him aggressively. Sam stepped forward, ready to be a punching bag for his brother. Sam had done it before, and he'd rather Dean hit him than keep breaking his fingers on the cars.

Dean drew his arms back for a fight. Sam thought that Dean might have lost control of himself, because he looked ready to go in for the kill. Dean would never regard Sam this way.

"Sam, be careful!" Bobby said, grabbing his arm to pull him back. "He's not in his right mind."

Dean rounded on Bobby. *Damnit, Bobby*, Sam thought. "I'M NOT SOME KICKED DOG, BOBBY!" Dean shouted, approaching Bobby with a pointed finger.

"You're not right in the head lately and you know it!" Bobby shouted, trying to drive the point home over Dean's considerably louder volume. Sam saw the fear on Bobby's face as he tried to walk Sam backwards. Bobby was thinking they should leave him alone to work it out, but that was the last thing Sam was going to do.

Sam was expecting an attack after that statement, but instead Dean stood stock still. The silence was piercing compared to the noise Dean was making a few seconds earlier.

His face turned to misery and despair for just a second, before -

"I'VE BEEN TRYING TO FORGET!" Dean roared back, bringing his hands up to his hair, his ears, tears now escaping his eyes freely. Sam could see Dean shaking hysterically as he leaned against the car, wracking sobs escaping from his brother's chest. Oh, how he wanted to help his brother. But what could he do? His brother was wild, would attack him if he got close.

"It's okay, Dean," Bobby said quietly. "We'll figure it out, just like Sammy said."

Dean held his other hand up to stop them from approaching, although they made no move to. "I can't calm down," he ground out between his teeth as he leaned on the car for more support. He was clearly trying not to scream bloody murder at them.

"You don't have to," Sam insisted. He didn't want his brother to kill himself trying to control how he coped. "Keep shouting or hitting me if you like. I can take it," Sam told his brother, hoping to overcome Dean's complex to always protect Sammy.

Instead, Dean bent further toward the ground, his hands shaking, his eyes moving wildly back and forth, looking at things they couldn't see. "Help me," Dean whispered as his hands grabbed uselessly at the car. His brother was going to pass out from how much he was hyperventilating.

"Stay with us, Dean," Sam evenly, hoping to anchor his brother in reality. He didn't want Dean to have to go through what was surely waiting in his mind.

Sam reached out and grabbed Dean's arm, hoping he would be okay with it like last time. Instead, Dean scrambled backwards, bumping into another car. "No, please," Dean pleaded. "Don't hurt me, please," he brokenly whispered. Dean's eyes looked up at Sam, wildly dilating, arms trying to defend himself. Dean was manic, eyes focused on Sam as they continued moving.

*Shit*, Sam thought. "We're losing him, Sam," Bobby said as he moved closer. Dean flinched as he quickly edged away from the voice. Shit shit shit.

"Dean, calm down!" Sam told Dean. "You need to calm down, now."

Dean's hands shook harder as he pitched forward onto his knees and hands. His arms and legs began to spasm, and he curled up on the ground. "Hang on, Dean," Sam said, now officially panicking. "Sammy's here. Bobby's here. We've got you."

The spasms traveled up Dean's arms and legs as he began to sob outright. Sam saw Dean's whole body shaking, and desperately didn't want this panic attack to evolve into a flashback.

"He's going to have a seizure if we don't calm him down," Bobby said loudly.

"We're not knocking him out against his will," Sam insisted. *He's probably had enough of that.*

*What do you want to do, then?* Bobby's look told Sam.

"Make it stop," Dean pleaded weakly from his position near where Sam was kneeled. The sound broke his heart all over again.

"Bobby, get sedatives!" He barked, changing his mind instantly. If Dean says he'd rather be knocked out than going through this, then Sam would make it happen.

"Oh god no," Dean moaned, looking over Sam's shoulder to something that definitely wasn't there.

"Dean, it's okay, it's not real," He said, grabbing Dean's face and turning it towards him. Dean's limbs were still shaking, hard, and his eyes were fixed over his shoulder. "Dean, look at me, not at it."

"Sammy, he's right there," Dean whimpered, and he began to push away from Sam. His eyes widened, fast, and he began to fight violently against Sam.

"Sammy!" Dean screamed, and his eyes rolled back as he began to seize.

"Fuck, FUCK" Sam yelled, just as Bobby came running back. Sam hoped desperately whatever was in that needle was the correct medication as he sank it into Dean's bicep.

It was, because the seizing slowed down and stopped within thirty seconds. Dean's tongue was undamaged, and he was now laying limply on the cold dirt of the scrapyard.

"Shit," Sam said, panting hard, as Bobby did the same thing. "Shit."

"Lets try not to let him get so worked up again," Bobby said, sitting down on the ground next to Sam.

"Yeah," Sam agreed, huffing.

After a couple minutes of letting their own adrenaline come down, Sam said "lets get him inside."

For not the first time, they found themselves hauling his limp body up the stairs and into the bedroom, making sure to put a glass of water and a plate of food next to his bed for when he woke up.

 **Dean Winchester**

Dean woke to a crushing feeling in his chest. All the anger that had been brewing turned to hard-edged emptiness, and he felt like he had turned to stone.

His eyes fell on a glass of water by his bed, and he felt how raw and scratchy his voice was. He snatched the water and downed it all.

He turned over in his bed, and immediately regretted the sloshing feeling the water made in his stomach.

The anger had left, but the cold emptiness that replaced it was much worse.


	6. Chapter 6: First Speech

**Sam Winchester**

Sam walked into the kitchen to make himself some lunch, and found Dean there pushing around cereal in a bowl.

He sat down to eat, and found himself contemplating his brother sitting across from him. Dean was doing well. Sam had sat down in front of him, and Dean didn't even act like he noticed. He had that empty expression on his face, but Sam supposed that Dean was allowed to feel bored after being cooped up inside this house for two months.

"I'm glad you're doing better, Dean," Sam said, heartfelt. Dean looked up at him, and looked back down at his cereal. Sam didn't think he had eaten any of it, but they could afford to waste a bowl of cereal. Sam was just glad that Dean took the initiative to get himself food.

Sam hated that Dean's fear caged him.

"You know, when you're ready to start talking, I'll listen," Sam said. He put down his sandwich, and looked squarely at Dean. "In fact, you should probably think about talking about it sometime – for something this huge, you have to talk about it – a lot." He wanted to get this out, properly, wanted Dean to know that Sam was still equally here for him whether or not he looked like he needed it.

Dean continued to look at his cereal, not acknowledging what Sam was saying. He didn't expect anything less, and soldiered on, hoping Dean was hearing him.

"It's not like you can talk to a doctor, either," Sam said, continuing. Then, a thought struck Sam. "What if I taught myself CBT, so you could talk to me, and it would be…" Sam gestured with his hands. "Better," he finished lamely. _Help you out more._

Dean turned his head and looked out the window, and Sam imagined that he was frustrated. Dean always hated doctors for broken arms and legs, and furiously maintained that brain doctors were for people with brain problems, and he didn't have a brain problem.

Sam tried to tell him that depression or suicidal thoughts were brain problems, too, but neither Dean nor their father would hear it. Unless you had a case of the crazies (that you were either born with or not), you didn't need no damn psychiatrist.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to," Sam amended. "I'm gonna learn CBT, so that if you decide you want this…"

Dean got up and went up to his room.

As soon as Dean ascended the stairs, Sam bent forward and put his head at the table.

"You know, Sam, I think he'll take you up on it." Bobby said. Sam turned to Bobby, eyebrows raised.

"Seriously. You've been in a bad place before, Sam, what did you want to do about it?" Sam recalled when he was depressed, in high school, when he thought he was destined to be a hunter forever. It eventually lifted when he set his sights on going to Stanford, but back then teen Sammy didn't think the hunter life was worth it. He asked Dad for medical help, but he was less than enthusiastic.

Funny, now he didn't even want to go back to college.

Sam pursed his lips, and said "Yeah, I always want to talk about my problems, but that's not Dean."]

"We don't know who Dean is anymore, Sam," Bobby said. "I mean, think about it – what do we know since he got back?"

"We know he's angry, because of what happened the other day. We know he's afraid, and it's not hard to guess at why. He's afraid of… women, he won't eat meat, he's afraid of being alone and he's afraid of being around us, he won't even eat most hot meals. We know he's miserable, because of what happens when he drinks. Sometimes, he lays up there for two days in a row and doesn't eat or drink. We think he hates himself so much he wants to injure himself."

Listening to this list, Sam felt like his heart was dropping through his stomach. Through his stomach, through his feet, through the floor, coming to rest somewhere in the basement. Sam got up and walked to the living room couch, dropping onto the sofa limply.

"Does any of that sound like 'the old' Dean?" Bobby asked despairingly.

No, no it really didn't.

"So for all we know, he wants to talk to you really badly, but for some reason he can't." Bobby leaned back in his chair. "He hasn't even said my name yet, Sam. For all we know he doesn't remember it."

They fell silent, both thinking what they had been trying to avoid saying for months.

"What if he's saying nothing because there's… there's nothing there?"

Bobby looked down, and his face mirrored Sam's heart.

It was that moment that they saw Dean standing in the doorway.

 **Dean Winchester**

The hunger pain was staggering, but when Dean made the food he found he didn't want to put it in his stomach. His stomach was aching, felt like someone lodged rocks there.

He couldn't even focus on the food. He felt this great pressure all over his body, felt like he was buried at the core of the earth, everything was weighing down on him. It felt like there was acid in his blood, coursing through his veins, searing a path through him. He wanted to scream.

Sammy sat down in front of him and started eating a ham sandwich. Dean couldn't drag his eyes up.

Sammy had psychic powers; how could he not hear Dean screaming in his head?

"I'm glad you're feeling better, Dean," Sammy said, and it tripled the pain in Dean's chest. He felt like someone was slowly breaking his entire ribcage. Sammy couldn't see.

"You know, when you're ready to start talking, I'll listen."

Dean felt like the weight was crushing him. He wanted to talk to Sammy, but he couldn't. Sammy couldn't know what he was going through, and he didn't want to anyways.

 _Again with the self-pity._

"In fact, you should probably think about talking about it sometime – for something this huge, you have to talk about it – a lot."

Dean barely heard him. The acid was coursing through his veins, burning him. He didn't want to talk, he couldn't talk with this weight crushing his lungs.

 _This is real pathetic, Winchester_ , rang out in his mind.

"It's not like you can talk to a doctor, either." Sam paused, and said "What if I taught myself CBT, so you could talk to me, and it would be…" Sam gestured with his hands. "Better," he finished lamely.

 _What?_ Dean thought. He didn't understand, why would Sammy want to go through all this effort to teach himself something on Dean's behalf?

Dean felt overwhelmed, and turned to look out the window. That damn acid was inside him, coming and going in waves, and Dean felt like stone.

What Sammy was saying, letting him know about this pain, it was too much. He wanted them to know so badly, but there was nothing he could do. He wasn't going to force his problems on them.

 _You already are, you're a fucking invalid_ , a voice said from the kitchen. He didn't turn to acknowledge it.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to," Sam amended. "I'm gonna learn CBT, so that if you decide you want this…"

Dean felt the emptiness crawling over him, darkness.

 _I can't do this, can't do this._

Dean got up abruptly, and pounded up the stairs. But when he got to the top, he heard Bobby's voice.

"You know, Sam, I think he'll take you up on it."

Dean stood in the hallway instead, out of sight.

"Seriously. You've been in a bad place before, Sam, what did you want to do about it?"

"Yeah, I always want to talk about my problems, but that's not Dean."

Exactly, see? He didn't want to Deal with Dean's _shit_.

"We don't know who Dean is anymore, Sam," Bobby said. "I mean, think about it – what do we know since he got back?"

"We know he's angry, because of what happened the other day. We know he's afraid, and it's not hard to guess at why. He's afraid of… women, he won't eat meat, he's afraid of being alone and he's afraid of being around us, he won't even eat most hot meals. We know he's miserable, because of what happens when he drinks. Sometimes, he lays up there for two days in a row and doesn't eat or drink. We think he hates himself so much he wants to injure himself."

With each thing Bobby said, Dean felt ice wind down into his heart. He slid down the wall and sat on the hallway floor, feeling like his stomach was lead. That acid in his veins would not stop, burning like a million needles in his veins.

"Does any of that sound like 'the old' Dean?"

Who was the old Dean? What kind of man was he? Dean wasn't sure he was even in here anymore. Dean was sure he _wasn't_ in here, the old Dean was cut away along his flesh in the pit. All that was left was this emptiness.

"So for all we know, he wants to talk to you really badly, but for some reason he can't. He hasn't even said my name yet, Sam. For all we know he doesn't remember it."

Dean's heart caved. He did, he wanted to talk to them so badly.

"What if he's saying nothing because there's… there's nothing there?"

 _Damnit, I'm in here._

Before he noticed, his feet were moving under him, silently carrying him down the stairs, stopping at the doorway to the living room.

 **Dean Winchester**

"Dean," Sammy said, sitting up abruptly. Bobby also turned to look at him, head on a swivel.

The words were stuck in his head, on a loop. _I'm in here. I'm in here_. _I'm in here. I'm in here_ …

Dean's hands began to shake, and he wrung his hands together to stop them.

He opened his mouth. The pain in his limbs was at a peak, his chest was burning. Tears leaked out of his eyes, and his throat started tearing.

"I'm in here." His voice was scratchy, rough, almost a whisper. He sounded strained to his own ears.

"Dean," Sammy said, eyes open and teary as well.

"Dean," Bobby followed up quickly. He got up, but what he did Dean didn't see.

Dean closed his eyes, his throat constricting, feeling like it was tearing from the inside out. He felt like the emptiness was clawing it's way out.

They were silent for a couple minutes, waiting for Dean to say something else. Well, they would be disappointed. _Truly pathetic_.

He opened his eyes to find the two of them standing in front of him.

 **Bobby Singer**

 _Shit_ , he thought the moment he saw Dean. _I was laying his weaknesses out on a fucking plate, and he heard._

Dean was just standing in the doorway, wringing his hands. He was shaking slightly, and Bobby could see from here his eyes were shining. Shit.

Then Dean opened his mouth, and time stopped.

"I'm in here."

He sounded tired, voice rough, but it was Dean's.

"Dean," he and Sam said at almost exactly the same time. Bobby got up, coming out from around his library desk and standing a little ways in front of Dean. Sam, too, got to his feet.

For a couple seconds, Sam and Bobby held their breath. But Dean just opened his eyes, so Bobby ventured forward.

"Dean, I wasn't trying to say there was anything wrong with you," Bobby ventured cautiously.

"We just didn't know how much you were with us," Sam said, hands out pleadingly. "Up to this point, all we know is that you're upset and angry all the time. We don't know," Sam swallowed nervously, "How much you remember, or what you're thinking, or if you're thinking, on a daily basis. We don't even know if you're with us most of the time or not."

"You're holding your cards as close to your chest as a person can, son," Bobby said softly.

Sam reached out to grab Dean's hand, and Dean looked up as Sam took it. Sam's fingers immediately turned white from the grip, but Sam for his part acted like there was nothing amiss.

Bobby reached over and put his hand on Sam's shoulder, to show that they were here for Dean together.

Dean opened his mouth again, and looked up at Bobby. Bobby felt like his breath stopped, because that empty mask was gone again. Dean looked upset, confused, like he was struggling to get the words out. He looked like he'd been thrown around by a monster.

Bobby would never forget for all his years the look of his eyes.

"I know your name, Bobby," Dean whispered, looking past him now and to the yard. He was studiously avoiding meeting either of their eyes.

"I'm here, but I'm not," Dean said softly. He was speaking slowly, his voice was extremely strained.

Bobby noticed Dean's shaking, and immediately pulled a chair in front of the couch. Sam led Dean to the couch, and Bobby took the chair.

Dean acted like he didn't notice, moving automatically. He was still staring at nothing, past them.

After they sat down, there was a few seconds of silence. Then Dean said, "Most of the time, I'm here…. I feel…"

Dean trailed off, but Sam and Bobby didn't dare try to fill the silence.

"Everything hurts."

"Dean," Sam prodded, ever so gently. "How?"

Dean's dead stare at the wall intensified, and his shaking increased a little more.

"Like acid," he whispered, extremely quietly.

Bobby blanched. It was an extremely strong metaphor, given the level of pain tolerance he knew Dean to have. Sam turned white as a sheet, thinking the same thing.

"I…" Dean continued, and then he took a shuddering breath. "I hear things that aren't there."

Bobby got a sinking feeling in his gut; they already knew that, but Dean sounded like he wasn't done.

"All the time, I hear the demons," Dean said shakily. "Taunting me. Sometimes I hear myself."

 _All the time_. Bobby stopped breathing, and Sam's eyes widened in terror.

"What do you say?" Sam said shakily.

"That I should put a gun in my mouth," Dean said, his face drawn.

He pitched over, but before he could get anywhere Sam pulled him into a tight embrace. Bobby's stomach flipped, but instead of resisting Dean just let Sam hold on.

"No, no, don't do that," Sam was saying. "We love you, we need you here."

"Just as you are," Bobby added, putting his hand on Dean's shoulder. Bobby felt Dean shudder underneath his hand.

Just as quickly, Dean was on his feet, eyes looking around wildly for some unseen threat. He changed in an instant, posturing defensively and backing away from the two of them.

"Dean, what's wrong?" Bobby said, jumping to his feet. He wanted to avoid this ending with a seizure, like last time.

Dean shook his head frantically, clearly unwilling to use is voice.

"Dean, talk to us," Sam said urgently. "What's happening?"

Dean's whole body jerked to the hallway, and then his tremors increased as he bent down.

"It's okay, nothing is here," Bobby started saying. He hoped Dean could still hear him. "You're at my house with Sam and I, you're safe, nothing can get you here."

Instead, Dean's knees fell to the floor, and Sam and Bobby were on the living room carpet with him.

Dean's eyes were focused on something in the kitchen, something that Dean thought was standing right in the middle. His hands were shaking, and he was on his knees on the floor, hands in the carpet.

Without looking, Dean grabbed a can of salt from a desk and shoved it into Sam's hands. Sam looked dumbfounded for a moment, but hastily poured the circle around them. Dean's shaking visibly decreased.

"Dean," Bobby said, slowly and carefully. "We can't see what you're seeing. What is it you see?"

Dean opened his mouth, but immediately snapped it shut again as his eyes widened in fear.

"You can tell us, Dean," Sammy implored.

Dean shook his head mutely, eyes tracking something that wasn't there. His shaking increased and increased, until suddenly he fell limp, backwards.

Sam immediately bent over and picked him up, but his eyes were still open.

Sam picked him up and moved him to the couch, and sat in the seat right next to him. Dean was laying there, seemingly asleep but for the eyes that were open.

"What's happening, Bobby?" Sam asked, with no small measure of trepidation.

Dean started murmuring, barely audible, but it could be heard in the quiet living room.

"Please stop, please, please," he began to beg, eyes empty toward the ceiling. Dean was outright crying, arching his body slightly away from the bed.

"Some kind of complex hallucination," Bobby said, pulling a sedative out of a hiding spot and pressing it into Dean's arm. "Lets put him out of this misery."

Dean quickly relaxed, and fell asleep.

"We're going to need more sedative soon," Bobby said emptily.

"I hate that," Sam mirrored.

 **Dean Winchester**

Dean opened his eyes to find both of them having gotten to their feet, and standing a little bit away from him.

"Dean, I wasn't trying to say there was anything wrong with you," Bobby ventured.

 _Yeah, but there is._ He felt the truth of it right down to his toes.

"We just didn't know how much you were with us," Sammy said, hands out pleadingly. "Up to this point, all we know is that you're upset and angry all the time. We don't know," Sammy swallowed nervously, "How much you remember, or what you're thinking, or if you're thinking, on a daily basis. We don't even know if you're with us most of the time or not."

Dean hardly knew the answers to these questions himself.

"You're holding your cards as close to your chest as a person can, son," Bobby said softly.

Dean suddenly felt Sammy's hand in his, and immediately started to hold on. _Please, Sammy, I know…_ Dean felt his ribcage break into shards _, I know you've done so much, but please save me_.

Bobby reached over and put his hand on Sammy's shoulder, and Dean's heart broke. He hated himself for it with every fiber of his being, but he wanted to walk up to Bobby right now and cry in his shoulder.

Dean opened his mouth again, looking at Bobby in the eye. Bobby appeared for the whole world to be waiting on Dean's every word.

"I know your name, Bobby," Dean whispered, now looking into the yard. It was easier if he wasn't staring right at them, like staring into the sun.

"I'm here, but I'm not."

He felt himself disconnect. He felt like his body was far away, and he felt Sammy's grip weaken.

"Most of the time, I'm here…. I feel…"

 _Feel like a ghost. Like when I lay down, the demons have returned to try and drag me back. Like there's poison in my veins, like my ribs are ground to dust, like there's nothing in my chest but a big hole. Like I'm the smallest and most unimportant thing. Like I should put a gun in my mouth and remove myself because I don't deserve to be here._

"Everything hurts."

 _Why am I here, being a burden?_

"Dean," He heard distantly. "How?"

"Like acid," he rasped. _Like his insides have corroded_.

He opened his mouth, not sure yet what he was going to say. Everything hurt.

"I…" he started. He wanted to them to know, and he had to tell them, because there was no way to guess. "I hear things that aren't there."

His voice shook. They knew that, they had helped bring him back. But he didn't just mean when he had flashbacks.

"All the time, I hear the demons," Dean said shakily. "Taunting me. Sometimes I hear myself."

He must have fallen silent, because again he heard "What do you say?" from far away.

"That I should put a gun in my mouth," Dean said, and he felt himself grimace. He leaned over, the constricting feeling becoming too much, his chest assaulted by knives.

Suddenly he was pulled into a tight embrace, and the arms around him took the edge off the crushing emptiness on the inside.

"No, no, don't do that," Sammy was saying, loudly and close to him. "We love you, we need you here."

Dean felt his chest melting, felt the cold hard emptiness on the inside give way to something just a little warmer and softer.

"Just as you are," Bobby added, putting his hand on Dean's shoulder. The contact made Dean's whole body feel warm. Dean shuddered, the pain lifting.

Suddenly, adrenaline shot through his heart.

Dean was on his feet in a second, heart beating wildly in his chest. He felt like there wasn't enough air, couldn't get enough air, his lungs were collapsing –

"Dean, what's wrong?" Bobby said, jumping to his feet.

Dean shook his head frantically. _The voice in his head wound up, you can't feel that, they'll come and get you, you can't talk, they'll come back if you talk –_

"Dean, talk to us," Sammy said. "What's happening?"

Something dark and fast ran through the hallway, and Dean's heart beat wildly inside his chest. _They were coming, coming for him._

Dean leaned over and put his hands on his legs. He knew this wasn't real, but if he didn't calm down he wouldn't know that much longer. _Get a hold of yourself, get a hold of yourself, get a hold of yourself…_

"It's okay, nothing is here," Bobby started saying. "You're at my house with Sam and I, you're safe, nothing can get you here."

Dean held onto the words like a lifeline as he pitched forward onto the floor.

In the kitchen, the shadows were slowly turning to demons.

 _They're not real_ , he told himself. _They're not real, they're not real._

But as they stalked forward with their medieval weapons, his litany turned to fear. Sammy and Bobby were right here – why weren't they doing anything? Why weren't they running away?

Dean grabbed a container of salt from the desk and shoved it into Sammy's hands. He blinked for a second, and then hastily poured a salt circle around the three of them.

The demons screeched, pacing around the salt circle. Sammy looked at Bobby, bewildered, _why wasn't he doing anything about the demons?_

"Dean," Bobby said, slowly and carefully. "We can't see what you're seeing. What is it you see?"

Dean opened his mouth, but one of the demons jeered "If you do that, we'll drag you back and have your tongue!"

Dean shut it promptly again. _Can't say anything, can't do anything, can't give them anything…_

"You can tell us, Dean," Sammy implored.

Dean shook his head mutely, eyes tracking one demon moving closer towards him.

Suddenly, he threw his spear straight into Dean's heart.

Everything melted away, his vision of Sammy and Bobby turning into the white room.

"No!" he started screaming, wildly. He was bound to that table in that white room, the demons standing around him.

 **Dean Winchester**

Dean woke in his bed, which he was beginning to expect after having an episode of some sort. He reached to his side for the glass of water he knew would be there, and was rewarded.

Sammy was in the bed next to him and it was dark, so Dean guessed it was in the middle of the night. Sammy was wearing clothes and sleeping above the covers, so Dean guessed he had a lot of nightmares while he was sleeping. Thank God he didn't remember them most of the time.

He did feel the effects of the lack of sleep in the day though, taking frequent naps and drifting off wherever he sat.

Dean turned over, and was surprised to feel that the piercing emptiness had lessened somewhat in his chest. The next thing Dean started to feel was boredom.

He was just laying here, in bed, and the covers were extremely soft and everything was blessedly quiet, but he had restless energy. He wanted to do something, and he wasn't going to get any more sleep.

Dean quietly got out of bed and walked down the stairs. He couldn't do any chores like dishes or laundry, because that would wake those two and he just wanted some peace and quiet.

He was not rewarded by it, though, when he was greeted in the living room with Bobby, a glass of whiskey and a laptop.

"Hey," Bobby rumbled quietly. "You doing any better?"

Dean didn't miss the way it was deliberately phrased as a yes/no question, and nodded his head.

"Good. So why aren't you sleeping?"

 _Why aren't_ you _sleeping, old man?_ Dean padded his feet against the floor uncomfortably.

Bobby interpreted the look on his face correctly. "I am reading about what happened earlier. That's twice now you've hallucinated, as far as I know, and one of those two times it ended in a grand mal seizure. Those can be deadly, so I'm looking up ways to stop your hallucinations before it gets that bad."

Dean pursed his lips. Lovely, great, his insanity was causing deadly seizures.

The thought of death brought both a terrible sense of yearning to Dean's gut, and coiled fear into his heart at the thought of going _back_.

"Unfortunately, I'm at a loss, since most of this medical help is for people who are schizophrenic, which is in the brain and not the _soul_ ," Bobby said with derision. "I hate that word, but they clearly exist and that's the part of you that sustained damage."

Dean felt relief, among other things, because he didn't want to be passed around from doctor to doctor. He hated hospitals, hated the way you got trapped in them.

Bobby looked up, and sighed, and dread pooled in Dean's gut.

"I really think we need to take you to a psychic of some sort. Listen, listen – not so they can read your mind to us, or whatever. One that is like a doctor, who will give you treatment directions." Bobby finished.

Dean looked at Bobby. He wanted to feel suspicious, but instead he just felt like he would do _anything_ to make the pain stop. He nodded.

"Well, you agreed to that pretty readily," Bobby noted. "That's unexpected. I'll make the call in the morning, she can be here as soon as tomorrow."

Dean felt panic flutter in his chest. He wasn't expecting it to be so soon. Instead of grabbing anything, he went back up into his room to think.

 **Pamela Barnes**

She rang the doorbell, and was promptly greeted with the sight of Bobby.

"Bobby!" she said, pleased to see him. They shared a brief hug. "It's been too long."

"It has, and I'm sorry it has to be business this time," Bobby said sadly, letting her inside. She immediately sensed the worry and distraught on Bobby, and the man sitting inside. Their presences were darkened, worried like storm clouds.

Immediately, she also noticed a distant sense of dread.

A long-haired, enormous man sat at the table, who she inferred to be Sam Winchester. "Sam," she said, "It's nice to meet you."

"It's nice to meet you too," Sam said, shaking her hand back warmly. "Thank you so much for coming and doing this."

"I mean, I'm not doing it for free," she laughed. She and Bobby had arranged beforehand payment – Bobby oddly insisted that she be paid a lot more than the standard rates, and insisted she would find out why.

It was then that she felt something morose in the air, like something crying out.

"So, where's my patient?" She asked promptly. She hid it, but the feeling was starting to pool in her gut and scare her.

It was then that Dean walked into sight, standing partially behind the doorframe.

She saw him, and she gasped. His presence was black, tattered, miserable, hanging off of him like rags. She heard the distant sounds of screams, and Pamela knew instantly who they belonged to.

The feeling got stronger as he walked into the room, keeping his eyes cast downward, as if he knew what might happen if she looked into them.

"Dean," she said, miserably, "I'm so sorry."

"What's going on?" Sam asked, worriedly.

"He's…" Pamela started, and then began to dig around in her bag.

"Lets go sit in the living room," Bobby suggested while she did so, leading them all to the seating. She took a chair next to Bobby, and Sam and Dean sat on the couch next to each other, Dean across from her.

Dean's thousand-yard stare, blank against the back wall, scared her.

"I can show you," Pamela said, pulling out a large crystal ball and stand. Bobby immediately brought over a small end table, and she set it up in between the four of them.

"For context, both of your auras look somewhat the same right now," Pamela said. She put her fingertips on the crystal ball and closed her eyes. She drew energy from them and pooled it in the crystal ball.

When she opened her eyes, she saw murky dark colors in the crystal ball, two dimensional and grey, navy blues and black.

"This is pretty standard for people who are suffering through depression, tough times, stressors in their life," Pamela said. They both looked at it for a long moment, as most people do when first seeing their own aura.

Pamela focused on the crystal ball, and pulled the energy out of it leaving it clear once more.

Pamela didn't miss the way a spike of fear shot out of Dean when she said 'depression,' and he looked at them out of the corner of his eyes. It's energy was dark and red and fizzled out into the room.

Pamela shuddered, afraid, and cursed herself. She was the one afraid, when Dean was the one living this way.

"This is what Dean's looks like," she said. Pamela steeled herself, and closed her eyes.

Dean's aura looked shattered, torn, as if the edges were bending backward out of this reality. It moved, shifted, the inside was deadened and empty.

Pamela reached towards it, and it seemed to crawl back away from her. But the moment she made contact, it enveloped her, and it took all the skill she had to push it back and let only a little inside her crystal ball.

But the ball shattered underneath her hands, her eyes flying open as she let go of all the energy and pulled away. She pulled away completely and opened her eyes.

 _Shit, that cost a lot of money,_ Pamela thought. _That's why Bobby's paying me a lot._

"That was a very rare, polished ball of perfectly clear crystal quartz polished from an enormous, naturally double terminating piece of clear quartz," Pamela said, looking at both the men. "It was a very powerful magical object." _And Dean's energy shattered it within seconds._ She couldn't hide it from herself anymore, she was very afraid. She didn't know if she was skilled enough to help Dean with this, and if she wasn't skilled enough she didn't know if anyone was.

Sam and Bobby's faces looked drawn and pale, the glass still at their feet as they stared where the ball used to be.

Pamela slowly turned to look at Dean.

His eyes were fixed squarely on where the crystal ball used to be, his hands shaking as he gripped his jeans.

"Dean, it's okay," Sam said, shakily turning to Dean. "We'll fix this, it's all right."

Dean was still staring at the empty stand, fear everywhere on his body. Pamela knew she had to do everything she could for him, because she was his only hope. And right now, he looked like he had his final hope stolen.

"Dean," she said, quietly but firmly, "I'm going to do everything I can for you, honey, don't you worry about that."

Dean looked up at her and their eyes met, and Pamela was swept away.

 _The knives dug into his skin as he screamed, begged and pleaded for the pain to stop but no the pain never ever ever stopped…._

Dean ducked his head down immediately, and the connection was broken.

"What happened?" She asked, adrenaline in her veins from what she felt.

Sam looked at Dean, and Bobby said "He was in hell."

"I see that," Pamela replied dryly.

"No," Bobby insisted. "Literally. He was in the pit."

Pamela's eyebrows raised and her demeanor changed. Oh. She had seen lesser demons and read about greater ones, but had never seen a human that visited the lower levels before. But she was a well-read wiccan and knew about the levels of hell, and she knew that the deeper you were, the faster time passed in relation to earth.

"How long?" She asked, and they supplied "Four months."

"Which level?" Pamela followed up. She was trying to get a sense for how long Dean had been gone, from Dean's point of view.

Dean shuddered. Sam and Bobby merely looked bewildered.

"Dante's Inferno," she supplied. "Some of the most well known lore in the world. Lesser known lore, time passes faster in relation to earth the lower the level you are at in hell."

Sam and Dean turned to Bobby, faces pale. She hoped this wasn't the first they'd heard of the time distortion, and she hoped that they knew previously about the levels of hell.

"Dean," she asked quietly.

He continued to keep his eyes downcast, giving no answer.

"He doesn't talk much," Sam supplied uselessly.

"Will it help you to have this question answered?" Bobby asked.

Pamela shifted. "Usually, treatment of illnesses like this require a pretty deep level of detail not necessarily about the trauma itself, but detail about how the patient is responding to it. I wanted to know how long he had been gone from his point of view, so I can understand his mindset."

"That's true," Sam confirmed to Bobby. He turned to Pamela and said "I've been training myself in CBT so I can help Dean get better. He's not talking, though, so there hasn't been much opportunity to use it."

Pamela turned to Sam, and almost smacked her head. Sam was a powerful, if untrained, psychic, and it would be a lot better for someone close to Dean to do the healing rituals she had in mind. Additionally, Dean was already close to Sam and would be willing to let him into his mind far more readily than he would Pamela.

When Pamela reached out for Dean, it was as if his very soul shied away.

"Sam," Pamela said. "That's really impressive that you're doing that. A lot of healing involves talking and opening up, and it doesn't take a genius to see he'd more readily open up to you than me, a stranger. I'd like to teach you how to do the healing spells I have in mind, and I can make some charms or materials."

"This all sounds a little witchy," Sam said darkly. "Spells, charms?"

Pamela scoffed. "You hunters and your prejudices. Not all witches get their power from deals with the devil," she said. "Look at you and me. What you call being psychic, covens call natural talent."

Sam, for his part, merely frowned.

"It's true," Bobby supplied. "I didn't realize you didn't know that."

"Well, I've just never met someone who called themselves a witch and there wasn't a demon around," Sam defended.

"That's because when hunters are around, we change it up a little," Pamela said. "Most of the time I call myself a psychic, but using crystals, herbs, casting stones… that's all magic."

"Doesn't it take a long time to learn?" Sam asked, now curious. Pamela noted that he wasn't acting like most people who have a magical talent, he was acting like someone assessing a choice.

"What takes a long time to learn is sensing people's energy, or sensing the energy of the earth or the stars. Most people struggle to ever gain their sight. With Dean," she said cautiously, "I don't think that will be a problem. Besides, I can tell you're massively talented."

Sam quirked an eyebrow at that. "How?" he asked, bewildered.

Pamela put her fingers on Sam's forehead, and closed her eyes.

Sam jumped back, and cried "What was that?!" Bobby looked startled.

"I opened your eyes. Well, your eye," Pamela said, gesturing. "Your third eye."

"And I can learn to do that on my own?" Sam said, suspicious.

"You can turn it off and on at will, too." Pamela grinned. The circumstances were terrible, but it was always exciting to see someone else discovering their power.

"Thank the lord," Sam breathed.

"Why?" Bobby asked quizzically.

"It was a lot," Sam said, looking around.

Pamela, out of the corner of her eye, saw that Dean had still not moved an inch from where he sat. Unnerving.

"So what do I need to do?"

Pamela got a notebook out of her bag and started writing down book names. "Read these, do what they say. I'll call you once a week to see how you're doing, and to coach you."

"All right," Sam said.

"You don't need a lot of learning," Pamela said. "Just enough to reach out to Dean. You should be able to accomplish that in a month or two."

Sam looked dubious, but nodded his assent, taking the list of books from her.

"Don't worry, they're short," she supplied.

Pamela turned her attention to Dean, facing him in the chair. "Dean," she said quietly. No response.

Pamela turned to Sam and Bobby, and said uncertainly, "Do you know if he's been listening – "

"He's been keeping up with the conversation," Bobby assured. "He's present." Pamela had no idea how he knew that, but decided to trust him.

"Well then, Dean," Pamela said more loudly. She opened her third eye, and saw Dean's energy arcing off of him in red and black shots of energy. Fearful. She realized what his aura looked like now; torn, ripped apart in a plane other than this world's.

She gently reached out towards him spiritually, but he shied away. She settled for attempting to radiate a sense of calm and peace from herself, bringing her hands together to focus the energy. Pamela knew it was working because she could sense the energy of the other two men present calming down.

"When I reached out to you last time," she said gently, "you fought me. You didn't hurt me, because we're strangers and because I'm very good at sensing when to pull away. But," she said, "Sam won't be. Sam's going to try and reach out to you, and he's untrained and you two are _very_ close. You could hurt him if you're not careful."

Pamela's voice wavered, hating that she had to ask anything of Dean. "I'm going to give you a book to read as well," she said, writing a title down, "That you should practice from. It's thought training. Basically, you're going to learn how to make your mind a safer place, for both you _and_ visitors." She ripped the piece of paper out and set it on the end table.

"Don't worry about the glass, we'll clean it up," Bobby assured. "Do you have enough money to get the supplies and everything you need?"

"Yes I do, Bobby, don't you fret," Pamela said, laughing. "You were very generous. Sam, I'll call you in a week and I'll be back in four or five weeks with materials to lead you through the healing rituals."

"You keep mentioning these," Sam said. "What exactly are they?"

"I wanted to research more specific ones when I got home, but I'll give you the outline," Pamela said. "First, there are amulets, crystal arrangements, and other things you can make that draw free floating negative energies out of a room. Dean's putting out an enormous amount of that, and it isn't doing him any favors," She said. "I felt the cloying the moment I stepped in your door."

"Second, there are rituals where the participant can siphon off their negative energy from memories into vessels or the world. I don't think that will be the right fit, though, since that requires some degree of reliving the experiences. It's better for single, short events that you can re-live and then be done with."

"Third, there are ways of reaching him inside his mind or his subconscious where he'll be more open. He might not be afraid to talk, and there will be physical representations of his struggle. It's all very symbolic, and each ritual is different, but basically you can be 'in the trenches' with him."

"Aren't you worried vessels of energy would shatter like the crystal ball?" Bobby asked.

"Yes, but that crystal ball wasn't designed for large amounts of destructive energy. There are crystal and crystal arrangements which are designed for containing that sort of energy."

"Why?" Sam asked.

"Angry or violent energy was used in the middle ages to charge swords and weapons of war," Pamela said. "Depressive energies can actually be used to help people in mental hospitals recover from manic phases, psychotic breaks, or amnesia."

"Wow, that's kinda great," Bobby said. "Think we can use some of that weapons magic on my guns?" Bobby suggested, laughing.

Pamela smiled, and said "No, unless you know someone who headed into battle for the noble cause. Besides," she continued, getting back to the point "You can't just release loads of negative energy straight into the earth without making it a small crop circle. You need to dispose of it carefully. That's why most people have negative energy vessels."

"Ah," Sam said.

"At the very least, I'm going to bring back chalk and crystals and set up talismans around the house," Pamela said, heading toward the door.

"Thank you Pamela, really, for helping us," Sam said. "You have no idea."

 _No_ , she agreed, _she probably didn't._

"Read your books, boys," She called, loud enough to hear. And to Sam privately, she said "And you better call me when this is all over too," winking as she walked out.

 **Sam Winchester**

"When is she going to get here?" Sam asked. Dean was standing in the living room, wound even tighter than usual, refusing to sit down or acknowledge that Sam and Bobby were in the room.

"She called an hour ago and said she was an hour out," Bobby said. "Don't get your panties in a twist."

Sam's panties were already in a twist. He was nervous, nervous because Dean was clearly nervous and nervous because he wanted this to go well for Dean. He didn't want them to be making a bad choice and accidentally put Dean through something awful.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang, and Sam walked out into the kitchen as Bobby got the door.

"Bobby!" Pamela said, walking in. They shared a brief hug. "It's been too long."

Pamela Barnes had black hair, a 90s rocker aesthetic, and her face fell the moment she stepped over the stoop. She covered quickly, but Sam couldn't help but wonder why.

"It has, and I'm sorry it has to be business this time," Bobby said sadly, letting her inside.

"Sam," she said, turning her attention to him. "It's nice to meet you." She shook his hand, and Sam noticed that in another life, her appearance was the sort of thing Dean would make a crass comment over.

"It's nice to meet you too," Sam said, shaking her hand back warmly. "Thank you so much for coming and doing this." Despite what they promised her, he knew it was still a challenging case that many would turn down.

"I mean, I'm not doing it for free," she laughed.

Her face fell for a moment again, and Sam began to get worried about what she was sensing.

"So, where's my patient?" She asked promptly.

She must have seen Dean down the hall, because she audibly gasped and rushed to cover it up. Dean trudged into the entryway into the kitchen.

"Dean," she said, sympathetically, "I'm so sorry." Sam was grateful she had the sense not to walk any closer to him.

"What's going on?" Sam asked, worriedly. _What are you seeing that we can't?_

"He's…" Pamela started, and then began to dig around in her bag.

"Lets go sit in the living room," Bobby suggested while she did so, leading them all to the seating. She took a chair next to Bobby, and Sam and Dean sat on the couch next to each other, Dean across from her.

Sam noticed the glances she kept throwing Dean, and Sam was sure Dean noticed too. Sam had learned by now that when Dean stared past you, he trying to look without really looking.

"I can show you," Pamela said, pulling out a large crystal ball and stand. Bobby immediately brought over a small end table, and she set it up in between the four of them.

"For context, both of your auras look somewhat the same right now," Pamela said. She put her fingertips on the crystal ball and closed her eyes.

Before Sam and Bobby, the glass filled up with what looked like two dimensional smoke, navy blue and black, swirling around restlessly

"This is pretty standard for people who are suffering through depression, tough times, stressors in their life," Pamela said.

Sam knew she was here for Dean, but he was mesmerized at the thought that this was what Pamela saw around them right now.

Pamela blinked and the energy was sucked out of the crystal.

"This is what Dean's looks like," she said, closing her eyes.

Sam watched as tattered red and black filled the crystal, electric as it slammed up against the crystal. A long crack formed on the surface, the space inside it filling up rapidly. Just as Sam was about to yell, the crystal shattered.

"That was a very rare, polished ball of perfectly clear crystal quartz polished from an enormous, naturally double terminating piece of clear quartz. It was a very powerful magical object."

 _And Dean's energy shattered it within seconds._

Sam looked at where the crystal ball used to be, hopelessness pooling in his gut. _What did this mean?_

Sam was quick to notice that Dean was staring at the crystal ball now as well, looking at the spot where it used to be.

"Dean, it's okay," Sam said, shakily turning to Dean. "We'll fix this, it's all right." _I don't know what's going on but I'm going to make it right and you're going to be okay._

Dean was still staring at the empty stand, fear everywhere on his body.

"Dean," Pamela said, quietly but firmly, "I'm going to do everything I can for you, honey, don't you worry about that."

Dean looked up at her, and Pamela froze. For just a second they were staring at each other, but then Dean ducked down his head and Pamela shuddered.

"What happened?" Pamela asked, shaken.

Sam looked at Dean. His head was still ducked, and Sam bet that Dean wasn't going to be moving any more while Pamela was here. But he was in the room and his gaze was fixed on his hands, so he appeared present.

Bobby said simply "He was in hell."

"I see that," Pamela replied dryly, thinking it was a turn of speech.

"No," Bobby insisted. "Literally. He was in the pit."

Pamela's eyebrows raised and her demeanor changed to visibly shocked.

"How long?" She asked.

"Four months," Bobby supplied.

"Which level?" Pamela followed up.

Dean shuddered. Sam didn't like the sound of levels, he had heard of Dante's Inferno, and he didn't like that Dean shuddered.

"Dante's Inferno," she supplied. "Some of the most well known lore in the world. Lesser known lore, time passes faster in relation to earth the lower the level you are at in hell."

Sam and Dean turned to Bobby, faces pale. Sam knew that it was longer for four months, but he didn't know exactly how long. All the accounts varied in their time, and Pamela had a good explanation for why.

"Dean," Pamela asked quietly.

"He doesn't talk much," Sam supplied uselessly.

"Will it help you to have this question answered?" Bobby asked. Sam was glad, he didn't want to try and get an answer to a question which didn't need one, especially to satisfy a stranger's curiosity.

Pamela shifted. "Usually, treatment of illnesses like this require a pretty deep level of detail not necessarily about the trauma itself, but detail about how the patient is responding to it. I wanted to know how long he had been gone from his point of view, so I can understand his mindset."

"That's true," Sam confirmed to Bobby. He had read that in his studies. He turned to Pamela and said "I've been training myself in CBT so I can help Dean get better. He's not talking, though, so there hasn't been much opportunity to use it."

Pamela turned to Sam, shock on her face. "Sam," Pamela said. "That's really impressive that you're doing that. A lot of healing involves talking and opening up, and it doesn't take a genius to see he'd more readily open up to you than me, a stranger. I'd like to teach you how to do the healing spells I have in mind, and I can make some charms or materials."

"This all sounds a little witchy," Sam said darkly. He knew the talent he had came from demon blood, and that wasn't something he wanted. "Spells, charms?"

Pamela scoffed. "You hunters and your prejudices. Not all witches get their power from deals with the devil," she said. "Look at you and me. What you call being psychic, covens call natural talent."

Sam, for his part, merely frowned. She didn't realize where his psychic powers came from.

"It's true," Bobby supplied. "I didn't realize you didn't know that."

"Well, I've just never met someone who called themselves a witch and there wasn't a demon around," Sam defended.

"That's because when hunters are around, we change it up a little," Pamela said. "Most of the time I call myself a psychic, but using crystals, herbs, casting stones… that's all magic."

"Doesn't it take a long time to learn?" Sam asked, now curious. He was feeling ill at ease with learning magic, and it sounded like something Dean would definitely implore him against.

"What takes a long time to learn is sensing people's energy, or sensing the energy of the earth or the stars. Most people struggle to ever gain their sight. With Dean," she said cautiously, "I don't think that will be a problem. Besides, I can tell you're massively talented."

Sam quirked an eyebrow at that. "How?" he asked, bewildered.

Pamela put her fingers on Sam's forehead, and closed her eyes. Before Sam had a chance to ask what she was doing, the world around him changed.

Vibrations seemed to erupt from the world. It was as if they had their own feelings, their own thoughts, each object radiating a different color at different intensities.

The most overwhelming was Dean, black lightning radiating off of him in fits and bursts, reaching and fizzling out. He could seem them arcing towards him and Bobby.

Sam jumped back, and cried "What was that?!"

"I opened your eyes. Well, your eye," Pamela said, gesturing. "Your third eye."

"And I can learn to do that on my own?" Sam said, now intrigued. If there was a whole field of sensory input he was missing out on, that could massively help during the hunt.

"You can turn it off and on at will, too." Pamela grinned.

"Thank the lord," Sam breathed. He didn't want to be seeing that 24/7.

"Why?" Bobby asked quizzically.

"It was a lot," Sam exhaled. It was intense. "So what do I need to do?"

Pamela got a notebook out of her bag and started writing down book names. "Read these, do what they say. I'll call you once a week to see how you're doing, and to coach you."

"All right," Sam said, taking the piece of paper. That seemed simple enough.

"You don't need a lot of learning," Pamela said. "Just enough to reach out to Dean. You should be able to accomplish that in a month or two."

 _Wasn't witchcraft something people spent a lifetime learning_? Sam felt suspicious, but decided to trust the experienced psychic.

"Don't worry, they're short," she supplied. Sam didn't think book length was going to be a problem.

Pamela turned her attention to Dean, facing him in the chair. "Dean," she said quietly. No response.

Pamela turned to Sam and Bobby, and said uncertainly, "Do you know if he's been listening – "

"He's been keeping up with the conversation," Bobby assured. "He's present." Sam could tell, Dean was still focused on his hands with his eyes, keeping his gaze downcast. He was barely trembling.

"Well then, Dean," Pamela said more loudly. "When I reached out to you last time," she said gently, "You fought me."

Sam listened intently. He felt anger pool in his gut, jealous that this stranger could communicate with Dean in a way he could not. _But_ , he told himself, _not for much longer._

You didn't hurt me, because we're strangers and because I'm very good at sensing when to pull away. But," she said, "Sam won't be. Sam's going to try and reach out to you, and he's untrained and you two are _very_ close. You could hurt him if you're not careful."

Adrenaline flooded his body when he remembered what happened to the crystal ball, it's remains still at his feet. But it was for Dean, and whatever the consequences were, he would take them.

"I'm going to give you a book to read as well," she said, writing a title down, "That you should practice from. It's thought training. Basically, you're going to learn how to make your mind a safer place, for both you _and_ visitors." She ripped the piece of paper out and set it on the end table.

"Don't worry about the glass, we'll clean it up," Bobby assured, hoping to get her out. They both agreed that they didn't want to put Dean through more than was necessary. "Do you have enough money to get the supplies and everything you need?"

"Yes I do, Bobby, don't you fret," Pamela said, laughing. "You were very generous. Sam, I'll call you in a week and I'll be back in four or five weeks with materials to lead you through the healing rituals."

"You keep mentioning these," Sam said. "What exactly are they?"

"I wanted to research more specific ones when I got home, but I'll give you the outline," Pamela said. "First, there are amulets, crystal arrangements, and other things you can make that draw free floating negative energies out of a room. Dean's putting out an enormous amount of that, and it isn't doing him any favors," She said. "I felt the cloying the moment I stepped in your door."

"Second, there are rituals where the participant can siphon off their negative energy from memories into vessels or the world. I don't think that will be the right fit, though, since that requires some degree of reliving the experiences. It's better for single, short events that you can re-live and then be done with."

"Third, there are ways of reaching him inside his mind or his subconscious where he'll be more open. He might not be afraid to talk, and there will be physical representations of his struggle. It's all very symbolic, and each ritual is different, but basically you can be 'in the trenches' with him."

"Aren't you worried vessels of energy would shatter like the crystal ball?" Bobby asked.

"Yes, but that crystal ball wasn't designed for large amounts of destructive energy. There are crystal and crystal arrangements which are designed for containing that sort of energy."

"Why?" Sam asked. Why would anyone want to keep bad energy around?

"Angry or violent energy was used in the middle ages to charge swords and weapons of war," Pamela said. "Depressive energies can actually be used to help people in mental hospitals recover from manic phases, psychotic breaks, or amnesia."

"Wow, that's kinda great," Bobby said. "Think we can use some of that weapons magic on my guns?" Bobby suggested, laughing.

Pamela smiled, and said "No, unless you know someone who headed into battle for the noble cause. Besides," she continued, getting back to the point "You can't just release loads of negative energy straight into the earth without making it a small crop circle. You need to dispose of it carefully. That's why most people have negative energy vessels."

"Ah," Sam said. That made sense, he supposed.

"At the very least, I'm going to bring back chalk and crystals and set up talismans around the house," Pamela said, heading toward the door.

"Thank you Pamela, really, for helping us," Sam gushed. "You have no idea." _Truly_.

"Read your books, boys," She called, loud enough to hear. And to Sam privately, she said "And you better call me when this is all over too," winking as she walked out.

Sam shook his head as she shut the door. "Well," Sam said, turning around and going back to sit next to Dean.

 **Dean Winchester**

Dean exhaled a breath that he hadn't known he'd been holding when Pamela walked out the door.

"What do you think?" Sammy asked, walking into the room to sit beside him.

 _What did he think?_ He thought that Pamela mentioned that he might hurt Sammy, that's what he thought. No no, Dean didn't sign up for that.

He thought that there was no chance, that his chances were destroyed along with that crystal ball that was still on the floor.

He picked up a piece of quartz, it's insides blackened like it was charred from the inside out. The sight made his blood rush through his ears.

Sammy tore it from his grasp, and immediately got up and started picking up the larger pieces. "Don't worry about it, all right? I don't care what it takes, I'm going to do everything there is to be done to help you."

Sammy was on his hands and knees on the floor, picking up the crystal. "And I don't care if you hurt me, although I don't think you will," he said. "Just do what Pamela said and it will all be fine. This isn't a hunt, and there's nobody fighting against us to screw it all up."

Dean leaned forward, and started picking up pieces of quartz.

 **Dean Winchester**

He knew every crack, every piece of plaster in this ceiling by heart.

Ever since Pamela came over, Dean had been laying in the bedroom. Bobby had gotten a hold of the book Pamela suggested, and Dean was slowly working his way through it.

It was an exhausting read. Every time there was a suggestion to do this or that, Dean felt too exhausted to even try. He couldn't imagine that he was floating on the ocean and that his existential panic was feeling was _just_ a physical reaction, because the physical reactions were crippling. He couldn't go toward the feelings and learn from them, because he knew nothing good would happen if he did.

The very thought of it made nerves pool in his gut, made his arms and legs feel like they were filled with sludge. It was much better to lay here, memorizing the ceiling, still and unseen.

A knock came at the door, startling Dean and sending adrenaline racing through his heart. His breathing quickened. _Why does every surprise give me a fucking breakdown_ , he ground out in his mind.

"Hey Dean," Sammy said, letting himself inside. "Pamela called."

 _Excellent_ , he thought derisively, that nervous energy climbing up his body.

"She decided that the best thing to do when she came over would be to…" Sammy cleared his throat, pausing. The nervous energy swirled inside Dean. "Basically, to hypnotize you."

Inside, Dean rolled his eyes. _What, so she can make me hop on one foot_?

"None of that mind-control 'clap your hands three times' stuff," Sammy clarified. "The way she explained it, it's like talking to your subconscious. We all have fears or thoughts that we don't even share with ourselves, that kind of stuff. Basically, she wants to do talk therapy with the part of you that can talk."

Dean found that idea far less unsettling than he initially feared. He didn't like the idea of anyone digging around in his head and knowing his deepest fears or any of that bullshit, but he was a mental case wandering around the halls of Bobby's home jumping at every noise. The time for dignity was over.

Shame settled into Dean's gut at the thought, and he was viscerally reminded of the emptiness in his chest.

"She's also hoping that we can make some talismans or whatever, special-order hoodoo for your situation," Sammy continued, "Based on what we talk about."

That all sounded fine, thought Dean, as Sammy blathered on a little more and shut the door.

 **Dean Winchester**

Dean had agreed to this before, but now he wasn't so sure.

He was sitting on the couch, and growing more nervous by the second. It felt like the first time he ever posed as a fed, except ten times worse; the dread was pooling in his gut and Dean really felt like he'd rather be sick all over the carpeted floor than go through with this.

He must have been shaking, because Sammy said "It'll be okay Dean. This is going to help you."

Yes, Sammy traipsing around his head was going to help him. The idea behind it was that if they knew what Dean was thinking or feeling or what it was that he was afraid of, they could come up with specific 'coping mechanisms.'

The thought made Dean shudder. He was a powerful hunter, and here he was now, a basket case that needed psychic intervention.

The knock came at the door, and Dean's instincts to be completely still came back in full force. He felt like his limbs turned to stone where he sat.

He heard their voices in the other room, and just waited for them to come in here like he knew they would. After a couple minutes of greeting and shuffling, they did.

Pamela entered his line of sight, and she said softly "Dean, you've been working on that book I gave you, right?"

"He has," Sammy piped up helpfully. "I've been keeping track of how many pages he reads."

 _How_? Dean thought, feeling slightly violated. _Probably keeping track of where the book is open to or something when he goes to sleep._

"Good," Pamela said. "Now, I don't know if Sam has explained this to you, but we're going to be speaking to your subconscious. You're not going to remember it very well, it will probably feel like a dream, and you'll vaguely see and hear things that aren't there, like in a dream."

 _Nobody warned me about that_ , Dean thought with sudden fear. _Whenever that happens, historically, that doesn't turn out well._

"Wait a moment," Bobby shouldered in. Dean was thankful he caught that. "Like he's going to hallucinate?"

"Not exactly," Pamela said. "Again, it will be like he's dreaming, but awake."

"Sorry Dean, I'm not going to beat around the bush with this one," Bobby said apologetically, "But Dean has had a few hallucinations so far, and whenever we try and interact with him during one he has a seizure." Dean found he didn't much care, and was instead glad that he had been so frank with Pamela. What Dean didn't want is for them to try and preserve some sense of imaginary dignity at the cost of severe pain.

Pamela opened her eyes wide. "That's highly unusual, but that shouldn't happen here. This is, medically speaking, a type of coma, not a delusion."

"Coma?" Sammy asked worriedly.

"See, this is why I don't like speaking about it in medical terms," she sighed heavily. "Just trust me, all right? This is completely safe for everyone involved. It's the other stuff we might try that won't be so safe."

Sammy and Bobby furrowed their brows, and Dean thought that's about how he felt with this whole situation. If he had the strength, he might have backed out then and there.

"Dean, come sit on the floor," Pamela said, gesturing to the center of the room. "Sam, sit across from him." She set her hefty bag down on the floor and started rummaging through it.

Dean got up mechanically, and sat precisely where she pointed, Sammy settling across from him cross legged. Pamela started setting crystals around them, and the sight of the magical objects wound Dean up even more. He set his hands on his pant legs, being completely still.

"All right, lets get this show on the road," Pamela said, lighting candles around them. "Dean, you'll need to hold this crystal with both hands."

She held out a smooth, pointy opaque rock, and Dean jerked his hand out to grab it. He half expected it to do something on contact, but it stayed a smooth, pointy, inert rock. Dean wondered what in the hell it was which changed plants and rocks into unnatural power.

Sammy placed his hands over the rock, at Pamela's direction.

"Dean, the only person you'll be able to hear speaking is Sam," Pamela said. "Don't fight what is happening, just let the sensations come to you and pass. This," gesturing to the rock, "Creates a connection between you two. You'll be able to hear what Sam says, and respond."

"What if he wants to, like, get out?" Sammy asked, at the same time Dean thought it.

"You should be able to sense it." At Sammy's puzzled face, Pamela said "You'll know what I mean. Sam, when it's time for it to be over, say 'trust what you hear and not what you see.'"

"Trust what you hear and not what you see," Sammy repeated.

The panic was at an all time high, and Dean couldn't crush the fine tremors seeping into his hands. He was thankful for the fact that everyone else chose to pretend they didn't notice. Dean couldn't stop fantasies of terrible hallucinations or reliving memories as soon as Pamela finished her spell.

 **Sam Winchester**

Pamela finished her incantation, and immediately Dean's hands stopped shaking and his eyes instantly relaxed. Sam just stared at the instant change, but felt nothing from the crystal they were both holding.

"Ask if he can hear you," Pamela prompted, and Sam was shook out of his revire.

"Can you hear me?" Sam asked.

"Yes," Dean replied neutrally. Sam thought he looked like he was doped up.

Pamela gestured for him to get started, so Sam looked at the list of questions he had on the floor.

They had decided helping him get able to talk was their most immediate priority, since he could tell them what was going on himself if he could talk.

"Do you know why you can't talk?" Sam inquired.

"I can talk," Dean said just as neutrally, staring at nothing.

Sam pursed his lips. Pamela warned him that people in this state were typically overly-literal.

"Why won't you talk?" He followed up.

"Because they'll come," Dean said, and Sam detected a note of upsetness in his tone.

It was then that he felt something from the 'connection.' He felt fear in his body, a fear that wasn't his and electrified his limbs. He sat up straighter, feeling his own heart beating in his chest.

Sam opened his eyes wide, and looked at Pamela questioningly.

"Did you just feel something?" Pamela asked, and Sam nodded.

Bobby looked over at Pamela, and she said "Sam should be able to feel any strong emotion Dean is feeling right now as if it his own. Dean is sensing Sam as an extension of himself. So he said 'they,' assuming Sam knew who they was, because Dean does."

"Who is they?" Sam followed up. The next wave of fear was much more intense, and Sam felt like his heart was going wild inside his chest. He felt like he was on a hunt, and the monster was _on top of him._

"The tormentors," Dean whispered, his eyes wide. Sam felt like it probably was not prudent to continue with this line of questioning, because he could infer what that meant.

So Dean was choosing not to talk because whenever he did, pain came with it. It wasn't a pride thing, not giving in, at least not anymore. Sam figured that's probably how it started. But it was hell, and there was pain all the time – how would not making noise help?

"What happens if you don't make noise?" Sam asked.

"They leave me alone in here," Dean said, his face neutral again.

"Where is here?"

"White."

Sam looked at Bobby, and Bobby shrugged uselessly. _Where is here? White_. It's white here? The place he's in is white? But he's in hell, where is white? The only level of hell with white surroundings is the ninth, and treachery is the only crime in that hierarchy Dean _couldn't_ be accused of committing.

"He's never betrayed anyone, has he?" Pamela said, face drawn.

"No, no," Bobby reassured. "It's not like that." But Bobby turned to Sam, apparently asking for clarification.

"What is white?" Sam decided to ask instead. He was curious about what and where Dean was in hell, what it was like, _damn_ curious, but thought that Dean deserved to tell Sam himself if he wanted to. Sam could service his academic interest later.

"The room."

"The room is white?"

"Yes."

Sam sat for a moment, silently. "Is the room a cell?"

"Yes."

"What is the cell made out of?"

"Tile and fire."

Sam blanched. A white, tiled cell covered in fire is where Dean was left alone whenever he didn't talk. And when he did talk, the torment started.

Bobby and Pamela, for their part, looked like they were going to be sick.

"It's one thing to read it in religious texts…" Bobby said quietly.

Sam thought he found the answer to his next line of questioning, too, why he lays so still for days at a time and doesn't respond to any external stimuli.

"What did you do in that room?"

"Lay still."

Sam's heart dropped and he nodded. So Dean was trying to protect himself, when he laid on his back completely silently, like when he first escaped. It makes him feel safe to do that. How can we teach Dean that if he talks or moves, there is nothing coming for him?

"Do you know you're free now?" Sam asked.

"Usually," was Dean's reply. He said as much the last time he spoke.

"Do you think that something will come for you if you speak?" Sam was trying to gauge whether or not he knew, up here, that nothing was coming anymore.

"Yes," Dean said, monotone.

"Remember, this is his subconscious," Pamela clarified. "He probably doesn't think this when he's awake. This is all instinct."

Sam nodded, and looked down to his sheet of questions. Next on the agenda was trying to get Dean to eat, and keep his food down when he did eat. After two or three months of little food, Dean was looking gaunt and weak, and beating this was going to take as much physical energy as it did mental.

"Why don't you eat food?" Sam asked, changing tack.

"Don't want to."

"Why don't you want to?"

"Not hungry."

Sam rolled his eyes, and said "Why aren't you hungry?"

"Because my stomach hurts."

"Why does your stomach hurt?"

"Because I don't eat."

Sam was in circles. He wouldn't eat because his stomach hurt, and his stomach hurt because he wouldn't eat _. He doesn't know what you're getting at_ , Sam reminded himself _. Ask questions literally_. He's not refusing to eat because his stomach hurts from hunger.

"Does your stomach hurt from something else?" Sam asked, thinking there was something he might be missing.

"Yes," Dean said. Bingo bango.

"Why else does your stomach hurt?"

"Because everything hurts." At that, Sam felt raw pain inside his body, flashing hot for just a moment. He gasped, and Bobby turned his rapturous eyes from Dean to Sam. Dean, too, sat up rigidly.

"I'm okay, I'm okay," Sam waved off, and then thought _shit, I'm not supposed to talk_.

But instead of Dean getting confused or upset, he thought he could sense Dean calming down. He felt himself calming down. So instead, Sam repeated again "I am okay, I am okay," and the pain receded a little.

Dean visibly relaxed, too, and it gave Sam an idea.

"I am safe," Sam repeated rhythmically. "I have escaped. I am at Bobby's house with Sam and Bobby."

Dean visibly sagged, taut muscles slackening again, and Sam was glad he was able to use connection this for more than just reaching into Dean's mind and playing around.

They knew Dean was depressed, and panicked most of the time, and 'everything hurts' was a pretty good description of how that must feel. Sam was relieved that it wasn't some sort of bad association with eating that was keeping him from eating. He wanted to ask one more question to make sure.

"Are you afraid of eating?"

"Yes."

Sam's heart fell. "Why are you afraid of eating?"

"The food is always bad."

That could have meant the food tastes bad, but Sam had a feeling that's not what it meant. "How is it bad?"

Dean sucked in a breath. "It is painful."

Okay, not only was Dean not eating or drinking because of depression and panic, he was scared of the pain coming back. Sam was seeing a theme, where he believed if he did anything, they'd come get him.

The most prudent thing to do seemed to be to rip fear up out at the roots, but Sam read that it was much harder to convince someone their delusions aren't real than it was to convince them that, in this one instance, they were safe. For instance, it was easier to convince someone afraid of being poisoned that this meal wasn't poisoned, than it was to convince them the poison was never coming.

A plan was forming in Sam's mind.

Sam wanted to be sure there wasn't anything they were missing while they were doing this.

"Are you okay with Sam and Bobby knowing what happened to you?"

"Yes," he said blandly.

Sam thought that was far too vague, and said "Are you okay with Sam and Bobby seeing your memories?" He was trying to get a feel for what level of detail he'd consent to.

"Yes." No hesitation.

Sam was surprised. "Are you okay with telling Sam and Bobby what happened?"

"No." Dean's tone was firm, abrupt.

So it was the telling them that was the problem, and not them knowing. "Do you trust Sam and Bobby?" Sam kicked himself; that was too vague a question. As predicted, Dean gave no answer.

"Do you trust Sam and Bobby not to hurt you?"

That must have also been too vague, because Dean again gave no answer.

"Do you trust Sam not to hurt you physically?"

Dean again, maddeningly, gave no answer. But Sam remembered the name Dean used when he climbed out of his grave, and tried again.

"Do you trust Sammy not to hurt you?"

"Yes," Dean immediately answered. A sense of safety accompanied the answer, and Sam felt tears welling in his eyes. He swore to himself that he would do everything he can to keep Dean safe. He had failed Dean once already, he wasn't going to make the same mistake again.

"Do you trust Bobby not to hurt you?"

"Yes," Dean said, more blandly. So it was the name that was the problem.

"Has Sam hurt you?" Sam asked, unable to help himself.

"Yes," Dean said, and Sam felt the sense of worry.

"Where?" Sam asked.

"In hell." Sam thought he heard, at the corner of his senses, his own voice taunting Dean.

Sam blanched, yet again. This was a line of questioning that was highly sensitive to Dean, and Sam didn't need to know anymore. Dean decided that real Sam was Sammy and the fake one Sam, fine by him, he was content to be Sammy forever now.

Sam collected himself, looked at his sheet of questions, and forged on. "Can you write?"

"Yes."

"Can you write a letter to Sammy?" Sam was careful to refer to himself as Sammy, given what he just learned.

"I don't know."

Sam shrugged. He didn't know if the idea occurred to Dean or not yet, but he figured he hadn't tried yet because there wasn't anything he urgently wanted to say.

He was almost done, but wanted to do one more thing. He felt embarrassed, saying something completely sappy like this in front of Bobby and Pamela, but it had to be done.

"Sammy wants you to know that you escaped, and that Sammy is going to keep you safe."

A tear leaked out of Dean's eye, and Dean took no notice of it.

"Trust what you hear and not what you see."

Dean immediately sat up, body pulling rigid like the strings on a puppet. He looked around, and immediately got on his feet and walked around to the desk.

"Dean!" Sam exclaimed, getting up to follow him.

Dean had flipped open a notebook, grabbed a pencil and furiously started writing. Sam looked over his shoulder to read, but Dean pushed him away.

"Do you want me to wait until you're done?" Sam asked, laughing, and Dean nodded.

"I didn't know he could move that fast," Pamela observed.

"If he decides he doesn't want to be somewhere anymore, he's a quick fucker," Bobby noted.

After a couple seconds, Dean was still writing, so Sam ventured "So… I have an idea. Addressing Dean's fear at the root of things seems out of reach right now, so how can we build up some positive associations with eating, moving and talking? I was thinking," Sam trailed off, thinking of how to word his suggestion.

"What if there was a way to hypnotize Dean like we just did, except instead we have him eat or talk or walk around? And this is important," Sam ventured, "He can't have emotional reactions when he does it. If he has a panic attack when eating, it just reinforces that food is bad. So is there like, a way to turn his emotions off or something, have him do all these things, then have him remember them when he wakes up, and remember that it wasn't bad?"

Pamela raised her eyebrows. "That's the first humane use for a mind control spell I've ever heard."

"What?" Sam asked, blandly.

"Well, think about it – what if you could do what you just described, but to soldiers? Force them to go out into battle fearlessly?" Pamela said. "People have done it. It was very popular just after the death of Jesus."

"So it can be done," Sam verified. He looked up to keep an eye on Dean, but Dean was still writing. He had slowed down some, and was stopping every so often. Sam couldn't quite tamp down the excitement of reading whatever he was writing.

"Surprisingly easily," Pamela said. "That's why witches tend to restrict the knowledge. But I got an in, so all I have to do is make a call. We can probably do it right now," she said.

"Right now?" Sam asked suddenly, and Dean looked up, startled. "Won't we need you around to bring him out of it?"

"No, no," Pamela said. "I can bind it to an amulet. Whoever wears it will bend to the will of the person wearing the key. In this case, Sam, you."

"That sounds heavyweight," Sam said.

"It's only heavyweight if you're making ten thousand amulets for one key, or you're trying to make the effects span half a country away. This, where there's only two amulets and the range is limited to a house, is easy."

"Well, that doesn't make it sound any less heavyweight to me," Bobby said. "In fact, that sounds extremely dangerous if the wrong person got their hands on it."

"That's true," Pamela granted, "But you of all people know how to keep something safe, Bobby. And," she said, turning to Sam, "I can bind a keyword to it. That way you two can just wear them all the time, and Sam can turn it on or off."

Sam felt doubtful. That sounded like something _he_ would never consent to, let alone Dean – the ability for Sam to turn his emotions and will on and off like a lightswitch? To make him into some sort of puppet? But then Sam remembered what Dean had said. _I trust Sammy_.

Sam turned to Dean, and Dean was holding up a piece of paper. In large handwriting, it said 'If this will make the pain stop, do it.'

Sam's heart felt cold as he remembered the stakes for Dean. Living as a puppet might really be better than the living hell he was currently stuck in, where there was eternal pain around every corner.

Dean, apparently satisfied, put the paper back down and went back to his unnatural stillness. Sam felt chilled now that he knew why.

"I guess there's our answer," Bobby said.

Pamela got up, saying, "I have to make a few calls," and walked out the back door.

As soon as she did so, Dean lifted his hands and proffered a piece of paper. Sam took it, and began reading.

 _Sammy,_

 _I know the food isn't going to turn to worms in my mouth, and I know that if I tell Bobby what I want on the tv that a demon isn't going to suddenly round the corner and attack me. I know that in my brain, but I still can't make myself do it._

 _Doing anything at all makes my body seize up, makes all my nerve endings hurt and makes my heart explode. I hate myself for it. I used to be so strong. This amulet doesn't just sound like a treatment plan or whatever; it sounds like relief. Do it._

Sam took the paper like it was precious, and looked at Dean. Dean was still sitting behind the desk, stock still, staring past Sam's shoulder. Sam guessed that it probably cost Dean a lot to communicate to him this way, since the act of communicating is what seemed to be the struggle for him.

"Thank you, Dean," Sam said warmly. "If you've had enough fun by now, you can go upstairs if you want and I'll come bring you the amulet when it's done." No need to put Dean through this. Before, Sam was just accepting Dean's new idiosyncrasies, but now that he knew why be couldn't bear the thought of Dean actively suffering. If staring at that ceiling was all he wanted out of the rest of his life, so be it.

Dean shook his head firmly, not otherwise moving.

"I don't know how you think so little of yourself when _anyone_ else would have taken that invitation to leave, given the circumstances," Sam said dryly.

Bobby held his hand out, obviously wanting to read it, but Sam hesitated. It only had his name on, and he didn't want to betray Dean's trust.

"Can Bobby read this?" Sam asked.

Dean stood up suddenly, grabbed the paper, and scribbled something on it. He handed it back to Sam. The opening line now read _Sammy and Bobby_.

"I guess that's my answer," Sam said, handing the paper to Bobby.

Bobby held it equally carefully, eyes scanning. "Dean," Bobby said slowly, "have you ever considered that you're way too hard on yourself?"

Dean didn't give any response, so Sam supplied "Yeah, he did, and he concluded that it was wrong. Even though it's _not_ ," Sam emphasized, turning back to Dean.

Still stock still. Alas.

It was then that Pamela walked back in. "I have everything I need to do this out in the car," she said.

Within ten minutes, she had whipped up two crystal necklaces, one clear and one gold. They were lucky that they didn't have to wait for a right time of day or the right lunar cycle, or heaven forbid the right time of year.

"These will be weak," Pamela said. "What that means is that you can't tell him to kill himself, and he won't follow orders where he _thinks_ he's going to come to harm." She frowned. "If he merely feels he's going to come to harm he'll probably follow an order, but if he thinks intellectually it will actually harm him he won't. So if he truly believes a demon is there he won't follow an order to ignore it, but if he merely fears a demon might show up, he'll follow an order that will make the fear worse."

Pamela gave them both to Sam, and Sam put them around him and Dean, he the gold and Dean the clear one.

"Okay Sam, when you want to turn it on, just hold it in your fist and pour energy into it," Pamela said. "You should try it once while I'm here, just to make sure it works."

"You ready Dean?" Sam said, doing as Pamela instructed. Dean gave no response, and Sam assumed that he was trying to steel himself.

No sooner had Sam done as Pamela instructed when it his necklace began to glow dimly, and Dean's began to look like it was gold on the inside. Dean's posture in the seat slackened immediately, as Sam anticipated.

Pamela gestured, and Sam asked "Do you feel all right?"

"Yes," Dean answered blandly, looking around the room disinterestedly.

"Are you thirsty?" Sam asked, thinking of something they could readily do to test this.

"Yes, extremely," Dean answered, as expected.

"This feels super weird," Sam commented. He felt uncomfortable with the idea that he was about to order his older brother around to do basic tasks. "Dean, go get yourself a glass of water and drink the whole thing."

Dean got up, casually walked into the kitchen, and did so. After, he looked at the empty glass, looking mildly astonished.

"Excellent," Pamela said. "I'll be on my way, call me if you have any questions, and call me when you're done with that piece of magic so I can destroy it. I don't like leaving mind control amulets laying around."

"Neither do I," Bobby said, ushering her out and giving her a rather large sum of cash.

Sam was just standing there, unsure of what to do with himself now. He figured he better make sure there weren't any other things Dean needed.

"Are you hungry?" Sam asked. "Stupid question," he said, just as Dean said "famished."

"You know where all the food is, make yourself a full meal and eat it," Sam said, striving to be specific. He wanted Dean to do it all himself, or what was the point of all of this.

"When do you think you're going to turn it off?" Bobby said, coming back into the room.

"I don't know," Sam said, playing with the golden thing. "We can't turn it off immediately after he's done something that would frighten him, or we'll undo all the progress. And I don't want to turn it off until after he's had a good few meals or sleep – I bet no emotions will help with the nightmares," Sam followed up. "Not for a while, I guess."

Bobby grunted "Probably best." They both watched Dean mechanically amble around the kitchen for a minute or two.

"Shitty situation," Bobby commented.

"Yeah," Sam agreed.


	7. Chapter 7: Peace

**Sam Winchester**

Sam was right in his assessment that it would help Dean sleep. It did, tremendously, and Dean woke up at a reasonable hour of the morning after a full night's sleep.

Over breakfast cereal (Sam didn't want to push too much), Sam asked "Do you feel better from yesterday?"

"A lot," Dean replied, languidly eating his cereal.

Sam figured he probably did. As Dean finished his cereal, Sam asked "Is there anything else you need?"

"To use the bathroom," Dean replied.

"You need my permission to use the bathroom?" Sam asked, aghast. "Do you need me to tell you to do everything?" _Man_ , Sam was thinking, _this is more heavyweight than Pamela made it sound_.

"I don't think I can do anything with you telling me to, Sammy," Dean replied easily.

The sight of such a complacent Dean felt wrong to Sam. He wished he could just turn the damn amulet off and Dean would be his old self. But that's why they were here in the first place.

"Dean, listen," Sam said firmly. "I order you to go use the bathroom whenever you need to, to shower or relieve yourself, and you don't need to tell anyone where you're going or where you've been if you don't want."

Dean immediately stood up and went upstairs. Soon, the shower turned on, and Sam tried to pour over in his mind what other little things Sam could have missed.

When Dean came back down he was clean, in a fresh set of clothes, and Sam had a small list written up titled "Standing Orders." At the top was the shower and bathroom rule.

"Okay Dean, I have some standing orders," Sam said. "First, the bathroom one. Second, when at home, you are to make yourself food and eat or drink whenever you feel hungry or thirsty. If away from home, you are to tell me that you're hungry or thirsty and where you'd like to eat or drink. Thirdly, if you think you are in danger, you are to do whatever you think you need to do to get out of danger and then return to wherever I am and tell me what happened. Fourth, if you are feeling any physical pain, you should inform me when you first feel it. Fifth, if you ever experience a contradiction in orders, you should resolve it the way you think I would want. Sixth, if there's anything you think I should know or would take action on if I knew, tell me. Okay?"

"Okay," Dean said with certainty.

"Okay," Sam repeated. "What do you want to do today?"

"I don't want to do anything," Dean said blandly.

Sam rolled his eyes. This fun for about five minutes, but he could see it would grow tedious quickly. Well, they were supposed to be using this time to safely expose Dean to the world, so he thought he should do that.

"Let's go for a drive," Sam said. "In the Impala." He had been dying to get out of this house for more than just grocery runs, but he didn't want to leave Dean. "Bobby," Sam shouted, "We're going out for a drive in the Impala, don't panic."

Sam heard no reply, but he figured that he owned a cell phone and Bobby could just call.

Sam got up and Dean followed. Sam got out to the car, and he thought to ask "Do you want to drive?"

Dean looked like he was searching inside himself, and settled on "Yes," climbing into the driver's seat. Sam surreptitiously unclipped his iPod jack and threw it out the car window. He didn't need to deal with unnecessary anger later.

"Lets drive wherever you want," Sam said. Dean started the engine and pulled out of the lot. "What music do you want on?" Sam asked, and Dean replied "Metallica." Of course, _Metallica_.

After about an hour or two, Sam surmised that Dean was driving in an entirely arbitrary pattern, always staying within half an hour of Bobby's house. "Let me know when you don't want to drive around anymore," Sam said, and Dean nodded. Sam expected that that time would never come.

Sam considered Dean as he drove around. He seemed a lot more himself, just extremely doped up and malleable. It wasn't like all his emotions themselves were gone, just his will to make decisions. He still had music preferences, still clearly liked driving around in his car.

After a while, Sam said "Pull over here," gesturing to a field of wildflowers. There wasn't a building in sight, just the road stretched out before them. "Lets go sit on the hood of the car," Sam said, and Dean got out and did so.

"Look up at the sky," Sam suggested. He wanted to try and remind Dean that the open air and sky was nice. The last time Dean stood in an open area or looked at the sky, he had a panic attack. Sam figured he had agoraphobia after spending who knows how long trapped in a tiny white tile cell. "Does it look nice?" Sam asked, trying to encourage conversation. It was a beautiful clear blue, and Sam blessed his luck that the day was so nice. It was late fall and the weather was getting colder, but Sam figured it was worth it.

"Yes," Dean said quietly. He turned to Sam, and said "The sky is red in hell."

"What?" Sam asked, taken aback.

"The sky is red in hell," Dean repeated.

"Yeah, I mean…" Sam sighed. "Why did you tell me that?"

"I thought you should know," Dean said, turning back to the tree line.

 _Interesting interpretation of 'should know,_ ' Sam thought. _Is that the intellectual equivalent of wanting to talk about something with someone?_ It made sense.

"The sky was red in hell, and I didn't like it, because there were always ashes falling from it and it makes you cough very hard," Dean continued in that disconnected voice. Sam wanted Dean to open up, but was unsure if he should let him continue in case it ruined the good experience of being outside.

As it was, Dean chose for him. "I don't like fields because I was always running from them." Well then he was going to help Dean see that fields were pleasant and nice, and that being outdoors didn't mean anything was going to get him.

Sam grabbed Dean's hand and hopped off the hood. "Follow me," Sam said, walking with him into the field. Dean followed, and the further they got away from the car the harder he held Sam's hand.

About fifty yards from the car, Dean started resisting. "I can't," Dean said, and his tone was agitated. "It's dangerous."

Sam realized he'd found the magic's limit, and decided to walk ten yards back closer to the car. Dean looked relieved at the notion.

"Dean, can you do something for me?" Sam asked gently. "I want you to look at the trees, and try and see if there is anything running out of them at you. Can you see anything?"

"No," Dean said unsurely, his hands beginning to shake _. That's some damn powerful fear if it's breaking through this magic,_ Sam thought.

Sam wanted to try this, but he didn't know if it would work. "Believe me, there are no demons in those trees waiting to come out."

"I can't believe you," Dean said in that same unsteady voice.

"That's all right," Sam replied. "Focus on the positive things you're feeling. The weather is nice and cool, and there's a nice breeze going. The sky is clear and sunny, and all the grass is green and alive. Do you like those things?"

"Yeah," Dean said uncertainly again, but the shaking lessened.

Sam continued to point out positive things about the situation, until Dean's shaking stopped entirely and his voice faded back into that bland complacency.

"Do you want to go home now?" Sam asked.

"Yes," said Dean, firmly, sounding like himself. "I'm beat."

"Dean, you can just assume you are the one driving," Sam said as Dean stood by the car uselessly. "I'll only drive if you say you want me to."

Dean looked satisfied as he marched around to his side of the car and got in, turning on the car. It loudly rumbled, and Dean smiled.

 _Pamela explained this magic wrong_ , Sam decided to himself. He's still feeling things, just feeling way less things. _Like he has no will of his own_. _Maybe he was still feeling what he was before, but it wasn't fully penetrating._

"Dean," Sam asked, wanting to be sure. "Are you feeling any emotions?"

"A little," Dean replied. "I felt fear when we were out in the field."

 _Too much then_ , Sam told himself. "All right, we'll stick to small things then."


	8. Chapter 8: Turning the Corner

**Sam Winchester**

Several hours later, Dean traipsed inside having repaired a few cars, and showered up. They went on the scheduled drive around in the Impala, and Sam suggested to Dean that he drive a little recklessly fast. Sam wasn't enthused about the idea, but knew damn well it's what Dean would have wanted.

Again, Sam released the enchantment in the evening, Dean threw up everything he ate, and then sulked in his room before bed. Sam went upstairs to sleep and turned it on, and Dean slept through the night peacefully. When Sam woke up, he turned off the amulet to get a list of things Dean wanted to do, and turned it on. Rinse and repeat.

Sam did notice that with each passing day, Dean's reaction to the amulet being turned off was a little less harsh. He threw up everything he ate most nights and sulked as he did before

Dean, when he was himself, was spending his time upstairs and silent. Sam hadn't thought to ask whether or not it was working, and assumed it was since Dean's first look upon having the amulet turned off was always utter disappointment. Sam and Bobby would wait for Dean to approach them.

Sam hated that they were stuck searching for clues in his body language, instead of just being able to talk to him.

Dean's chosen activities were pretty narrow in scope; drive around, repair cars, go on errands for Bobby with Sam, clean the house or the property, watch terrible tv. It was a facsimile of his real life, literally faking it until he makes it. Sam tried not to think about it, but when his eye caught the little notebook with each day's activities on it, like a little planner, his heart fell.

 **Sam Winchester**

Dean had begun to share odd things with Sam. Sam supposed they were things Dean wanted to say anyways, while 'himself,' but didn't have the strength or the will to. He didn't ask too much, just told Dean to tell him "Anything he thought he'd want Sam to know."

They always came at the most alarming times. For instance, Dean mentioned early on that he didn't like burgers anymore.

"They're made out of ground beef, of meat, and meat reminds me too much of what muscles look like without any skin on them," he said, eerily calm, conversational.

Sam's heart dropped into his stomach, like lead.

"It also reminds me of the taste too. Demons have this weird obsession with eating body parts. He thought it was hilarious to make me eat my own. Intestines were the worst."

He really didn't think his heart could go any lower than his feet, but Dean was showing him new levels. Bobby was standing in the doorway, out of sight, looking like he was about to be sick.

Dean still looked pleasant and at ease as he continued to make his burger. Damnit, it was Sam who suggested a burger.

"Don't eat that anymore," Sam said, feeling green. "Just throw it out, throw out all of the meat in the house." If Bobby had a problem, well, Bobby could shove it.

As it was, Bobby looked on with something akin to approval as Dean just threw out all of the meat products.

"If you really want to avoid bad food, just avoid anything hot," Dean was saying. "It's not like cold food wasn't poisoned or anything, but hot food reminds me of what bodies taste like."

Sam put his head in his arms, hiding his face. He couldn't do this, couldn't listen to his brother casually speak about the way a demon made him taste his own entrails. Tears leaked out of his eyes, and he flexed his shoulders rather stiffly to hide the shaking.

"Was that too much?" Dean's worried voice drifted to his ears.

"No, no, it's not that," Sam assured quickly, bringing his head up. "Believe me, I'm glad you're sharing, I'm just… sad it happened in the first place."

Dean made a face, like he didn't know what to say. Eventually, he just settled on "What should I have for breakfast?"

"What sounds like something you would want?" Sam asked. Didn't want to take any more chances.

"Cereal. Cold and bland," he said readily. Sam waved him on, to make cereal for breakfast for the ten thousandth time.

 **Bobby Singer**

Sam wasn't the only one getting brutally honest descriptions of the pit from Dean. One day, when Sam was out shopping for groceries, Dean decided to abruptly share with Bobby.

"I don't want to tell Sammy this, because I don't want him to stop being there for me," Dean said suddenly, "But I'm scared of him because He would wear Sam's face for days at a time while carving me. Sometimes I look at him, when I'm myself, and forget that it's Sammy and not Him."

Bobby was stunned by the suddenness of it, and the second thing he felt was a withering sensation inside. That damn demon, whoever it was, wasn't content with just destroying him – no, it had to destroy his good memories as well.

Bobby also didn't miss the use of 'Sammy' and 'Sam' to describe his situation.

"You think if you told him, he'd start treating you differently?"

"I know he would," Dean replied easily. "It's Sammy."

"It'll be okay, son," Bobby said. "By comparison, you haven't been free that long. It's normal for… old habits, to still be in place."

"If you say so," Dean said, "But I worry at night that I'm never going to get better because what's wrong with me is in my soul, not my brain or whatever."

"First, the brain and the mind are connected," Bobby said, "So it doesn't even work that way. Secondly, did you get caught in any of my devil's traps when you walked down the stairs?"

"No?" Dean said bluntly.

"Then your soul is fine," Bobby said with finality. "Quit your bitching."

 **Dean Winchester**

The amulet was off, and Dean was sulking in his room as he customarily did. He was extremely glad for Pamela and her hoodoo, because he felt like he was doing unbelievably, enormously better than he was.

He could feel the difference, could feel how his body wasn't trying to fight him anymore when he thought about going downstairs or taking a walk around the property. His stomach, while hot and knotted, didn't constantly flip-flop at the mere thought of something unsettling. His chest certainly hurt a lot, but he didn't feel as if he was being crushed to death when he took a step out of the bedroom. Everything that was unbearable was suddenly tolerable, suddenly something he could work with.

He knew that while 'under the influence' he was awkwardly and abruptly sharing what hell was like, but he didn't mind. In fact, he wanted it to happen, wanted it to happen without him having to feel every ounce of the emotional pain that a real confession came with. He didn't want to have to constantly relive it for them to know.

 **Sam Winchester**

Sam groaned as he sat up and turned off the amulet. It was the thick of winter, the South Dakota air cold and whipping around the old house. Dean was sitting up in bed waiting on him, as had become his creepy habit.

As soon as the amulet was off Dean looked queasy, his posture immediately stiffening into pain, but he didn't hyperventilate. Sam crushed the now-routine sense of helplessness and held out the notepad wordlessly, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

Today, Dean did something different. He pushed away the notepad, shaking his head.

That made Sam wake up promptly. He crushed the desire to psychoanalyze Dean six ways from Sunday, and decided for Dean's benefit to _act casual_. Dean got up and went downstairs, looking steady on his feet and confident in his gait.

Sam immediately got up and followed him, hands running the tangles out of his hair.

Bobby saw Dean before he saw Sam, and the amulet was underneath his button down, so Bobby couldn't see it was off.

"Make yourself useful today and clean up that mess you left in my garage," Bobby huffed as he walked by. Bobby was aware that Dean couldn't refuse, but Sam and Bobby agreed that it would be best to treat Dean as normally as possible while 'under the influence,' and normal included gruff remonstrances and barked orders from Bobby.

Rather, today, Bobby only _thought_ that Dean couldn't refuse.

"Up yours, old man," Dean huffed as he walked to the fridge.

Bobby's eyes opened so wide Sam thought he might fall over, and behind the fridge door he could see Dean's smile was rather proud of himself. Sam's heart immediately warmed over, because the statement was so bitchy and so _Dean_.

"Up yours, old man," Sam repeated, staring at Bobby in the face, a wide grin. Dean was closing the fridge.

Bobby had collected himself enough for a response. "You watch your tongue, boy," he retorted, squaring his shoulders and shaking off the surprise.

Instead of laughing, Dean's hand flattened against the fridge door and audibly sucked in air. His shaking began in earnest. Sam ducked his head, and repeatedly cursed whatever God allowed this to happen to Dean.

"Dean?" Sam asked carefully.

"It's fine," Dean bit out quietly. "Just, uh.. a bad memory," he said, straightening up and wringing his hands together.

"Would it, help, if you came up with a list of words and phrases for us to avoid?" Sam treaded carefully. "Just temporarily, at least?"

Dean barked out one quiet, humorless laugh. "All of them," he said again, heavily and quietly. Sam suspected that would be Dean's new tone of voice.

"Well, this got maudlin fast," Bobby said dryly. "Dean, independently or not, clean up your mess in my garage."

Dean nodded, taking his point, and continued making what appeared to be half a ham sandwich for breakfast. It wasn't much but it was food, in the morning nonetheless.

Sam felt like he might float up off the living room floor he was so elated. Dean got up this morning, had a joking exchange, got past a trigger with little incident, and was voluntarily eating. Sam was really hoping they'd turned a corner.

"You're staring," Dean remarked, in that same low and quiet voice.

Sam opened his mouth and considered making some sort of excuse, but decided not to. He observed Bobby in the background, equally shocked at the turn of events. "Yeah, I am."

"I suppose I was acting really freaky there for a while," came the quiet statement.

"Anyone is freaky when they're being mind controlled," Sam said, laughing.

"I meant the total silence, sitting in silent rooms and staring at walls," he said even more quietly, picking off and eating small pieces of turkey, the most digestible lunchmeat.

"Oh," He said dumbly. "That." Sam didn't know what to say, didn't know what to say that would be safe.

"It was pretty unsettling," Bobby agreed.

With Dean talking, Bobby had evidently decided to drop his previous push for delicacy and tact when it came to Dean.

"Kind of makes you wonder what's going on in someone's head, he continued.

"Well, whatever's going on hasn't stopped," Dean mumbled quietly. "This hoodoo just forced my body learn that I don't need to have an aneurism every time I open my mouth."

Dean abandoned his half-eaten half sandwich, dropping it on the paper plate. "All right," he said a little more strongly, "That's enough sharing and caring for…. Ever."

Sam laughed, the hollow laugh of the sarcastic. "Ha ha ha, I don't think so, Dean. You've turned a corner, and I'm not going to watch you lose all the progress you've made. You are damn well sharing and caring."

"You can hardly make me," Dean stated quietly but firmly.

"Yeah, but sooner or later you'll want to," Sam pressed, "And I'll be here with both my ears and all my headshrink books, and you'll appreciate it then."

Sam carefully noted Dean's reaction. He knew how Dean would have reacted before he died – he would have torn Sam's head off as thanks. Now, Dean just started at his food and appeared to consider the notion. Sam remembered what Dean had said when Pamela created the magic for them. _Anything to make it stop_.

Instead, Dean got up and went to the garage, presumably to carry out Bobby's instructions.

As soon as Dean was out of the house Sam wheeled around to look at Bobby, and mouthed 'wow.'

"Yeah," Bobby said softly. "I'll say. But I'm sure something else will crop up that needs dealt with."

"Don't jinx it," Sam said sharply. "I just… let's be happy he's doing well." Is that too much to ask for?

Bobby nodded, and went back to what he was doing. Sam stood where he was, hoping that the road from here on out wasn't going to be too rough.

 **Sam Winchester**

It was apparently too much to ask for.

Dean hadn't spoken at all the rest of the day, but the silence he walked around in today was easy and vontary, not heavy and strained. Sam made some feeble attempts at communication, but when Dean's drop-this-shit gaze landed on Sam, he deflated.

At the end of the day, Sam and Dean shared beers. But a beer turned into two turned into three turned into whiskey much more quickly then Sam anticipated, and it felt like not five minutes later that Sam looked over to find his brother drunk.

Sam could see Dean's expression getting more filled with despair the more he drank, so Sam ventured "Are you sure you should be drinking that much?"

Sam himself had a bottle or two of beer, but nothing much. His moose frame could handle it. Dean put back on some weight over the last month, but still hadn't recovered his former build. Further, Sam was probably in no mental state to be drinking, let alone Dean.

"You don't have your fucken hoodoo, don't give me orders," Dean slurred. Sam briefly considered turning it on to get him to stop and go to bed, but almost immediately felt guilty. That would be an enormous breach of confidence, something he couldn't do to Dean.

"I'm just saying, Dean, the night might not end well if you keep going."

"The night isn't gonna end well anyways," Dean slurred lowly. "They never do."

Sam felt a morbid curiosity take over, knowing that he shouldn't have serious conversations with a drunk person but wanting so desperately to know what goes on in Dean's head.

"Tell me about it when you're not drunk," Sam settled on. "For now, just go to bed."

"Yeah, and have hell-o-vision in my head playing all night," Dean further slurred angrily. "No thank you."

"We have the hoodoo just for that," Sam countered, holding up the amulet.

Dean ripped his own off and threw it against the wall sharply. Sam was glad the crystal didn't crack on impact. "It's pathetic that I need that, Sammy."

"For the record, it's not," Sam said, feeling the need to counter that accusation. "It's been helping you for a month now."

"A month too long," Dean spit.

"Fine, it's your choice," Sam bit back. He took a deep breath, and collected himself. "Don't let something stupid keep you from getting the help you need."

Dean put his head in his hands, and appeared to be rubbing at his face furiously. His face was turning red, and Sam knew the look of a drunk and angry Dean anywhere.

"Son, it's time for your night to end," Bobby said sternly as he suddenly rounded the corner.

Dean looked like he was considering arguing, but instead stalked away, roughly shouldering the older man as he passed him in the hall. Sam could swear that Dean was petulantly stomping up the stairs in protest.

"Is this what we have to look forward to?" Sam asked bitterly. His vision swam and his chest hurt, because just as Dean returned to them he apparently returned angrier and more stubborn than he left.

"You heard him this morning, he hasn't actually gotten _better_ per se, just more visible. All the crap that was there is still there. He's gotten this far, he'll get through the rest too."

Sam made a groaning, petulant noise of his own. He didn't want to hear Bobby's reasonable rationale or his gruff, matter-of-factness that passed for comfort. Sam threw his legs up on the couch and stretched out, getting comfy, and he didn't notice when getting comfy became sleep.

Sam did notice when his sleep was interrupted by screams coming from upstairs. He immediately recognized them as Dean's, and hurried up the stairs to their room.

Dean was thrashing madly at something unseen, his eyes were even open, and Sam hadn't seen him have a nightmare this bad since the week he escaped.

Sam dove to his side and shook him awake, calling Dean's name, and thankfully Dean blinked his eyes in awareness quickly as they focused on Sam.

"Leave me alone," were the first, upset words out of Dean's mouth.

"Like hell," Sam bit out. He took a deep breath, and said "Look, remember how we were helping you and taking care of you before? That isn't going to stop just because you look like you've 'got it all together,' Dean. I know better."

Dean responded by pulling his eyebrows together in the best impression of an angsty teen, and rolled over to ignore his brother.

"I'll be here," Sam said to the room at large, getting into his own bed and falling asleep.

 **Dean Winchester**

Dean's morning had went surprisingly well, and he found that speaking to Sammy and Bobby had become markedly easier. The words didn't exactly roll off his tongue, but as he spoke he didn't feel his body shaking or his vision closing in. A wildly beating heart or shaking hands, he could deal with.

But the interaction had cost him, and he felt emotionally exhausted as he puttered around slowly in Bobby's garage. All he wanted to do was go lay in bed and sleep, but instead forced himself to do as Bobby asked and fix some of the cars as well.

 _It's not like he doesn't deserve it,_ that monologue in his voice said. _You've been being a fucking burden to them for closing in on six months now._

Dean felt too exhausted to say anything more for the rest of the day.

At the end of the night, he had a beer. The feeling felt nice, and he missed being able to sit on the couch and just feel the comfort of the cushions underneath without being constantly terrified that a demon was going to round the corner. The prospect of finally having a good night relaxing and drinking was appealing.

However, that's not how it turned out. As Dean drank more and more, that ever-present anger and hate started growing in his chest, turning inward on himself. He'd been nothing but a burden ever since he got back, and now that he was _finally fucking_ walking and talking, he better get the fuck over his problems. There were people out there who needed saving, who couldn't afford to wait on him.

"Are you sure you should be drinking that much?" Sammy's voice cut into his consciousness. Fuck Sammy, who was he to tell him how he should handle his problems?

"You don't have your fucken hoodoo, don't give me orders," Dean ground out. Dean hated that part of him wanted that, wanted the magic back just so that he could keep living in that fake, artificial world of peace.

"I'm just saying, Dean, the night might not end well if you keep going."

"The night isn't gonna end well anyways," Dean slurred lowly, the darkness in his chest washing in like waves, growing and growing. "They never do."

"Tell me about it when you're not drunk," Sam sighed with frustration. "For now, just go to bed."

The notion made Dean's insides roll violently. "Yeah, and have hell-o-vision in my head playing all night. No thank you."

"We have the hoodoo just for that," Sam countered, holding up the amulet. The part of Dean he hated stilled his hand, begged him to say yes.

 _You fucking pathetic piece of shit_ , something _angry_ inside him said, and he felt himself rip the cord off from around his neck and throw it against the wall. He hoped it wasn't broken.

"It's pathetic that I need that, Sammy," Dean's voice said.

"For the record, it's not," Sam said with no small measure of frustration "It's been helping you for a month now."

"A month too long," Dean felt himself spit. _If you weren't being so pathetic, you wouldn't have needed it._

"Fine, it's your choice," Sam bit back. He took a deep breath. "Don't let something stupid keep you from getting the help you need."

Something stupid. Dean hated that Sammy didn't know what was going on; it wasn't stupid, it was realistic. The world didn't give a shit about him and his problems, and if he wasn't being so tremendously self-absorbed he could have already been on the road saving people.

"Son, it's time for your night to end," Bobby said sternly as he suddenly rounded the corner.

The anger inside Dean stirred and provided several clever retorts, but Dean realized he might be right and instead rose roughly. He just wanted to be in the bedroom and for all of this to _fuck off_.

Dean laid on his back and stared at the ceiling, receding into the stillness that had become his safety, feeling like his body was a million miles away.

Dean was tied to a rack, Allistair's jagged knife tearing into his insides. He was fighting to get away, screaming, he had given up on silence years ago. But suddenly he was rising, and he opened his eyes to find Sammy's face in front of him.

The image brought up horrible memories, memories of Sam using the same knife to -

"Leave me alone," were the instant words out of his mouth.

"Like hell," Sammy said, and it twisted Dean's gut. "Look, remember how we were helping you and taking care of you before? That isn't going to stop just because you look like you've 'got it all together,' Dean. I know better."

Dean was scared and tired, and tried to organize his brain. The same fear of Sam and the knife came rushing to the forefront, drowning out any comfort that came from the notion of Sammy helping him.

Dean turned over. If he couldn't see that face, it wouldn't be quite so painful.

"I'll be here," Sam with exasperation, and rolled over into his own bed.

 **Dean Winchester**

Sammy and Dean had geared up for a trip to the store; Sammy suggested that Dean start leaving the house some, get "reintroduced to society," _as if I was ever introduced in the first place_ , Dean had thought sardonically. Before they left, he thought such a fuss over a trip to the grocery store was dramatic, even for the state he was in.

He was beginning to change his mind as they got closer to the store. Sammy was driving his beloved car, the unstated fear that Dean would become upset and his… driving, would get compromised.

As they arrived at the store, Dean thought it was valid. The sight of people milling about outside the store, talking and putting their purchases in the trunk, turned Dean's stomach. He hadn't seen this much living bodies at once since he was downstairs.

"You all right?" Sammy said as the engine idled in their newfound parking spot. Dean had to give him credit; Sammy was getting good at acting cool. Sammy barely blinked when Dean's panic wound up and he started shaking like a leaf.

But no, Dean was not all right. Every time he blinked, he saw nameless and faceless demons _running at him, bloodied and dying meatsuits tearing at him through streets and forests, bodies moving in discoordinated madness…_

Dean shook the memories off and nodded, and firmly grabbed the door handle and let himself out. He strode purposefully towards the door, determined to conquer first this grocery store and then hunting. Sammy and his long legs kept up easily.

When they entered the door, Dean's heart stopped. The people in the store went about their business, but the number of them reminded Dean of yet more things he didn't want to remember. But none of them happened in a grocery store, so he was able to swallow roughly and move on.

Sammy took the first step inside. "Come on," he said, as he walked down an aisle.

The pair were like a father and son, Dean picking out inappropriate and unhealthy food and Sammy promptly putting it back on the store shelves without a word. Sam was treated to multiple treatments of Dean's now-perfected bitch face, a recent adjustment to his much less vocal disposition.

"You can't live off of potato chips and french fries, no matter what scientists say," Sammy bitched back at his brother. Dean took the fries out of his hands and threw them in the grocery cart again. They turned down another aisle.

The meat counter was before them at the end of the rows, perfectly normal cuttings of raw beef, steak and other land mammals adorning an iced tray.

The raw meat and blood assaulted Dean's senses, strong and direct in their presentation, throwing him backwards and out of the grocery store into a nightmare.

Dean's body moved apart from him, controlled by an outside source. He was trapped, a prisoner to his senses. He was on a table, lying limp as Allistair made surgical cuts into his body, removing one organ after another.

His vision blurred, and his hearing rushed with screaming, endless screaming as he saw the motion of Allistair, holding out long tubes which came out of his body.

Dean was no longer Dean then, just another nameless and faceless victim claimed by the depths of hell. He had long since been empty, and so when his own entrails were offered to him, he ate them mechanically, without a second thought.

Dean came to suddenly, in a different part of the store. He came to to see that Sammy's hand was on the amulet, and the other was on his elbow. He jumped at the contact, and took stock of where he was; 8 liter soda bottles were to his left, and in front of him was the bakery.

"You back with me?" Sam said. Dean nodded, looking around, taking deep and rattling breaths.

"God, Dean, I'm so sorry, I just forgot…" Sam said, but he trailed off as Dean waved him off, as if to say 'save it, it's already forgotten.' He was already headed for his favorite aisle; alcohol.

"I don't think so," Sammy said with some measure of force. "I know I'm not your mom, or your doctor, but I am qualified to say we shouldn't give the tortured prisoner-of-war an open tap. Kind of sounds like a recipe for alcoholism."

Dean didn't want to open his mouth to respond, not with so many people around. _Images flashed in his mind, of one or all of the stranger's faces morphing into demons, rushing at him…_

He shuddered. Sammy was right, it probably wasn't smart, and no amount of _this is pathetic_ 's and _pull yourself together_ 's from the cruel voice in his head was going to change that.

"You boys need any help?" a large black woman was asking, dressed in a police officer's uniform.

The sudden, in-his-face authority kicked his instincts into overdrive, and he felt himself unnaturally still and look away. He kicked himself, knowing he had to look her in the eye or she'd think he was acting suspiciously.

But as he met her eye, the background melted away and suddenly there was a spear in her hand, heading for his side –

"I'm sorry," Sammy's voice cut in. "We were just bickering. My brother is a veteran, and I don't think that drinking is the smartest thing for him."

"Oh God," she said, voice suddenly pleasant. "I'm so sorry, I just had to come check – usually adults acting weird in the alcohol aisle are buying for minors, you know." Dean's instincts were haywire, and he opted to just stand there are look vaguely in between them. He was split between the desire to appear normal and participate in the chit-chat, and run away _right now_.

"Thank you for your service, by the way," she said warmly. "I know I'm a police officer and all, but it isn't the same thing."

Dean summoned the will to force a pleasant smile on his face. He felt the emptiness rapidly crawling up his chest and throat.

"He doesn't talk much," Sammy added.

"Oh. Well," the woman said, collecting herself. "Both of you have a nice day now!"

"You too," said Sammy pleasantly as she walked away.

He immediately turned to Dean and said "You all right? You looked like a heart attack when she spoke to you."

Dean turned to look sideways at everyone in produce, and murmured "Everyone in here is a demon," not caring to elaborate. He bit back a quip about 'crying on Sammy's shoulder,' seeing as he had actually done quite a bit of it already. Instead, he pushed back the painful sense of hatred.

Sammy looked thoroughly confused, and concerned, but opted just to say "Do you want to go?"

Dean looked longingly at the Walker Black. Sammy _was_ right, alcohol wasn't the best choice, and it wasn't as if Bobby didn't have rotgut for him to steal if he changed his mind later.

Dean turned and walked towards the cash registers, and Sammy took that as his cue.

 **Sam Winchester**

"We always knew he was really the sharing and caring one out of all of us," Sam said to Bobby, "But it's like he's not even trying to hide it anymore." Sam was nursing a beer and talking to Bobby, while Dean was hiding upstairs or sulking outside or doing whatever he was doing with his newfound freedom.

"Isn't that what you wanted?" Bobby huffed.

"Yeah, I mean it is, but…" Sam heaved a sigh. "It's weird, you know? He's spent his whole life trying to act macho and now it's like he just doesn't care anymore."

"Hard won maturity," Bobby said quietly.

"It doesn't make me feel good," Sam said. "That Dean is in so much pain and so tired that he isn't even trying to pretend anymore. I don't know anyone who's been through that much."

"Hey," Bobby said in jest. "I'm not trying to hide my rampant alcoholism."

"Fine," Sam said wryly, "I only know one person who's been through so much they're done pretending, and it's you. You happy?"

"No."

He raised his hands in surrender. "This is terrible. The hunting life is terrible."

"One, Dean's little vacation wasn't the hunting life, it was his own stupid choice," Bobby said. "Two, yes it is."

Sam turned away from Bobby. He looked down at his hands. "It was massively stupid, and I try to focus on how he shouldn't have done it, because… it was such an amazing thing to do for me, and I can't help but feel like I don't deserve it."

Bobby eyed him. "Sam…" he said slowly.

"I'm not searching for pity," Sam said derisively. "Just saying that I understand what a big thing it was to do for me, and I don't mean to demean it when I criticize it. Even though he did it for himself, not me," Sam ended bitterly.

 **Dean Winchester**

Dean retired the hoodoo from everyday use, but still kept it around his neck in case of emergencies.

Emergencies seemed to happen pretty often, too, because the hoodoo didn't eliminate his problems. He could manage a small amount of speech on a daily basis and he could manage making himself food and caring for himself, mostly, but that was about it.

He couldn't manage to sit through a sex scene in a movie without pitching forward onto his knees, hands on the floor, icy cold shame winding it's way down his front and down his back, making his insides curl up. His sex drive reacted, and the trigger started a chain of events which ended with him hyperventilating and willing himself not to throw up all over Bobby's living room.

He was thanking every force in this world that he was able to turn off the tv before collapsing, so Sammy had no context when he rounded the corner to find Dean curled up on the floor.

"Dean!" He immediately cried. "Are you all right?"

Dean couldn't find the will to look up at him, let alone respond. His hands were shaking and he felt icy cold, and the nausea was absolutely overwhelming. There was an indistinct pain all over his body, his heart was going to explode and he couldn't move and he felt like he was dying although _nothing_ was even _happening._

"Dean?" Sammy asked again, and Dean managed to make eye contact to assure him that _no, I'm not hallucinating_ and _no, I'm not having a seizure._

Not that he didn't hallucinate, of course, but he managed to keep it to when he was alone, and wasn't about to stop now.

"Dean, what's happening?" Sammy's worried voice cut across his consciousness again.

"Panic attack," Dean ground out with considerable effort. _What an ineffective name. They should call it a dying-for-no-reason attack_. You feel like you're dying for 15-45 minutes, and then you just get back up again. Dean had felt the adrenaline associated with near-death experiences before, and this was like that, except it _didn't stop_.

Dean wasn't looking at Sammy, but he could guess what was going on in his head. _How can I help Dean? Oh wait, I can't._

 _Just make it stop, make it stop, make it stop…_

 **Dean Winchester**

A week or two later, they were all three happily watching tv in the living room. It was a rare moment of peace, Dean felt calm, connected to reality, and like he could focus on the tc show.

But suddenly, their peace was invaded.

A high pitched, screeching noise invaded the house, and the three of them leapt down to cover their ears. The noise was piercing, filling the house, shattering windows and glasses and even the screen of the television.

"What the hell!" Sammy yelled.

Dean didn't know, but he recognized the sound.

He was in the room, so bright and white and blindingly alone when the noise started. It cracked tiles, it invaded his head as he fought against his restraints uselessly.

The harsh noise got closer and closer and then everything vanished into complete white.

"It was there when I was rescued!" Dean yelled. Suddenly, the noise vanished, and Dean's ears were ringing.

"What?" Bobby asked, rubbing his own ears.

Dean breathed hard, the panic fluttering wildly in his chest. "That noise is the last thing I remember in hell. Then…"

Sammy and Bobby said nothing, both looking at him and hanging on his every word.

"Then I woke up out back," Dean finished rather emptily. He ignored the pain that wound into his heart, remembering waking up in a coffin.

Bobby's eyes widened. "It seems whatever rescued you has come to call."

"Great," Sammy said. "Wonderful."

"That's about how I feel," Bobby said. "Got any more insight for us, Dean?"

Dean shook his head. No, that was really all. He supposed they would find out more about what that was sooner or later.

Sooner, actually, as the front door burst open to reveal a man in a trenchcoat. His dark hair and blue eyes pierced Dean, and Dean felt sure for some reason that this was no demon.

Sammy and Bobby apparently didn't feel the same way, and rushed him. They were blown back against the wall, however, and he stepped in. He didn't get caught in any of the devil's traps, and didn't even pause at the magic surrounding the house.

Dean didn't know why, but he didn't feel scared of this at all. He was scared of raw hamburgers, but not of this man who currently had his family immobilized against the wall.

"Why aren't I afraid of you?" Dean asked quietly.

"Because I am your angel," He said in a gravelly voice.

The statement was so fluffy, so preposterous, and so unexpected that Dean even felt inclined to believe him.

"Oh really," Sammy huffed. "That's why you blasted through Bobby's front door."

"I am the Lord's soldier, of course I am strong," he said.

"Got a name, Lord's soldier?" Bobby said with reprimand.

"Castiel."

"Castiel, can you put my family down?" Dean asked rather calmly.

They were released from the wall, but stayed standing where they were. Castiel turned back to Dean.

"I have hesitated in reaching out to you because of the state you were in, Dean, but there is no more time to waste. The seals are breaking and you must stop it."

Bobby's eyes widened and he looked like he was going to pass out, but Sammy and Dean instead stood there looking thoroughly confused.

"Like in Revelations?" Bobby said, sounding like he already knew the answer.

"The first has fallen and they are falling fast," Castiel said. "I fear for the world if we do not stop it soon."

"Someone explain," Sammy demanded a little roughly. "What the fuck is happening, some supernatural creature claiming to be an angel blew off the door and started spouting off about 'the seals,' which Bobby, you seem to know about, and Dean here is acting like he's known Castiel forever."

"He has," Castiel said blandly. "I am his angel."

"Sam's right," Bobby said. "How do I know you're really his guardian angel, and that the apocalypse is upon us?"

"Dean has broken the first seal," Castiel said gravely.

Bobby turned and looked at him with new eyes, and Dean felt firmly that he was missing something here. The look Bobby was giving him was turning his stomach, and he didn't want anything to do with it.

"What?" Dean asked, voice shaking.

"You hurt the girl," Castiel said in that same matter-of-fact gravelly voice.

"I didn't mean to!" Dean burst out, despite himself. He spent ten years beating himself up for it, he didn't need it made known to Sammy and Bobby through this fucking stranger.

"That does reassure me," Bobby said, "Although it's hardly clear what happened."

"Didn't mean to what?" Sammy burst out right after. "Dean, hurt the girl and didn't mean to?"

"While in hell, Dean – "

"Castiel!" Dean burst out. Sammy looked at him demandingly, and Dean knew he wasn't going to be able to get away with hiding this, not when some strange monster stormed into the house and started asking about it.

"Look, they…" Dean took a shuddering breath. This is not the first story he wanted Sammy to hear, nor was it the first story he wanted to tell. Not under these circumstances. But if he didn't spit it out now this Castiel would and _he had no right._

"They played a lot of tricks on me. Pretended to be you and Bobby, you know, and one of those times they had a girl tied down. They, you, told me she was a demon and I had to put the knife to her to find Lillith."

Dean felt twisting inside his gut, felt the sudden need to explain himself. "They had spent decades trying to get me to become a demon and torture people, and then they tricked me, she was another girl in hell and you and Bobby were really Allistair and Lillith and I –"

"Decades," Sammy said, eyes open wide. "God, Dean. I'm so sorry."

Bobby's eyes, too, were – Dean never thought he'd say it – watering, looking for all the world like it had just ended. "Son, I'm so sorry."

"Why are you sorry?" Dean cried, a little hysterical. "I sank a knife into some innocent girl in hell!"

"You didn't know, Dean, you thought you were with us," Sammy said, walking over. "It's all right."

"It was not all right, it was the first seal," Castiel cut in.

"He didn't know he was breaking it," Bobby snapped. "You ever been a resident of hell? No? Then I don't care if you're literally an angel of the Lord, you don't get to tell him what he did was right or wrong."

Castiel looked incredibly angry, haughty, even. "Unfortunately I need you, Robert Singer, or you would be smited for your insolence."

Bobby swallowed, and looked like he rethought his position on the matter.

"Nevertheless," Castiel ground out, "The battle is upon us to save the seals. You must return to the battlefield."

"Ha ha," Sammy said. "Not going to happen."

"You're the one who saved me," Dean said blankly. He spent all those years and felt the guilt of being _tricked,_ was left alone to rot, and this thing saved him.

"Too late," Castiel remarked. "The seal was not saved."

Dean couldn't find it within himself to care _why_ he was saved. He was.

But then he realized that not only did he hurt an innocent girl, but that hurting that girl was apparently some kind of gateway to a battle so enormous that an angel of the Lord was sent into hell to stop him, and didn't succeed. It didn't matter that he was saved.

"What happens when all the seals break?" Sammy pressed, continuing the conversation.

"Lucifer walks free," Castiel said, deadly serious.

"Oh shit," Sammy breathed. Dean didn't think the devil was even real, but Lillith was real, and this Castiel was an angel of the lord (at least, he wasn't a demon and wasn't stopped by demon-fighting magic) and so really the devil didn't seem all that preposterous anymore.

"And my superiors told me that Dean must be in the fight." Castiel turned to Dean. "Dean, return to the battlefield, and fight for the Lord."

"Fuck the Lord," he spit out, throat harsh and dry. There was a terrible leaden weight in his gut and he felt like he was about to fall to his knees. "If he cares about his seals, why didn't he keep me from hell in the first place? If he is all-powerful, why didn't he just break the deal?"

"The Lord works – "

"So help me," Bobby interrupted him, "Dean does not need that sort of patronizing bullshit, and frankly neither do we."

"It is true," Castiel said

"It's an excuse for an absent God," Dean said hollowly. He always had his feelings and his anger towards a God that abandoned the world, but this was really a new low. One snap of his fingers and that deal could have been broken, this world could have been saved.

He felt that terrible emptiness inside, remembered that girl on the rack, remembered her tears when he returned to lucidity. He remembered desperately wishing that he didn't have to hold on for Sammy and Bobby, because _he wanted the pain to end._

He reached a hand up to his chest and pressed, the pressure feeling like relief against the aching, poisonous emptiness inside of him. That acid started running through his veins again, and he felt like he was dying inside out.

He heard voices, but didn't comprehend them. His weakness literally was the end of the world. The seals were breaking, and the devil was going to return to the earth, and the great terror was going to begin.

"Dean, sit," Sammy's voice floated into his head, and he obeyed mindlessly.

Sammy continued talking, but Dean stared somewhere past him into the wall. What was the fucking point. The world was ending, they were all going to be dead soon enough, due to his fucking mistake.

He didn't want to exist anymore.

Sammy's voice continued in the background. But they weren't dead yet, and he couldn't give up. The seals weren't all broken, there had to be a way to save them. They could fix this.

"Great, just great," Sammy was saying. "Castiel drops by, says 'hey, the world is ending, and it's all Dean's fault,' _leaves_ Dean here with the undeserved guilt, and causes a three-month progress loss. Thanks, angel of the Lord, really. I thought angels were supposed to be _good_."

"You did think angels were good, Sam," Bobby was saying with dread.

"Yeah, until God abandoned my brother for four months – oh no, wait, _decades –_ in the pit as reward for good service. My faith was a little adjusted by that."

Dean's brain caught up with the situation. He was staring at the wall, he couldn't hear them, apparently he'd been checked out for a little while. They thought he had like, backpedaled or something. Dean figured he had; He was disturbingly good at forgetting he existed.

Dean went to speak, and found that horrible catching in his throat there instead. He swallowed roughly a couple times, and his heart felt like it was beating so frantically it was going to burst. He didn't want to hear about what they were saying, he wanted to curl up into a ball.

 _Fuck it_ , he thought, _this is my life now,_ and brought his knees up to his chest and wrapped his shaking arms around them. He was disappointed by the fact that it didn't make him feel much better.

It concerned Sammy, though, and he immediately wheeled around to Dean. "Are you with us? Are you all right?"

 _Too many questions,_ Dean thought blearily. His heart was still pounding distractedly loudly, and he felt like he couldn't focus on all the words.

"Fuck God," Sammy said roughly, and Dean identified deeply with the words.

"Indeed," Bobby said. "Although it feels a little irresponsible to be cursing the creator of everything."

"Who even knows if he's the only God?" Sammy spit. He looked so angry, looked like he must be seeing red. "We know other gods exist."

"I was just saying, boy," Bobby ground out. "Well, I better put out the call to all the other hunters, let them know that the end is nigh, or something like that."

"At least now we know why Azazel was trying to build some sort of demon army with me at the helm," Sammy said, shaking his head. "Christ."

Bobby opted to just say nothing instead, pulling out a notebook and his phone.

"It's going to be okay, Dean," Sammy was saying to him now. "We'll beat this, the world isn't going to end."

"We have to stop it," Dean found himself saying, still staring at the wall. His legs had returned to their proper position on the couch, and Dean just wanted to sit right there and never move again.

"You don't have to be the one to stop it," Sammy said. "There are hundreds of hunters in this world, and we're going to work together. We can also put the word out to priests, and holy men, and –"

"It's my fault, we have to stop it," Dean insisted. He remembered Lillith, fiery and blackened. "This is Lillith's plan. We have to kill her."

Determination was settling into Dean's chest, solid and dependable. This is what they could do. This is how he was going to rectify his mistakes; he would make sure nobody ever died because of a stupid deal again. Not him, not that girl, and not anyone caught in the crossfire of an apocalypse.

"It is?" Sammy asked.

"I remember her talking about a ritual, and she's the boss of everyone, so it sounds like her plan," Dean said. "We have got to kill her." No god damn apocalypse was going to happen on his watch, especially not one he opened the door to.

"That was actually the first thing I wanted to do after we rescued you, and then after you recovered," Sammy said, grinning widely. "Just because she escaped doesn't mean she's off the hook for what she did to you."

Dean grinned back, for the first time in a long time. They had a plan, and he had a purpose. Kill Lillith, save the seals, save the world.


End file.
